Gone Wylde 02: Is This Deception Necessary?
by Concolor44
Summary: Wendy Wylde, having set up shop in Vermont and met the locals, explores her interest in Karl Luscus.  She gets the Inn going and business picks up.  Meanwhile, some unsavory characters are infiltrating the state, and seriously getting on her nerves.
1. Chapter 1 Personae Part A

**GONE WYLDE – BOOK TWO:**

**Is This Deception Really Necessary?**

**by Clint McInnes**

. . .

. . .

. . .

**Author's Notes: This is a continuation of the events in Gone Wylde – Book One: Moving Things Around**

In **Book One** - We met Wendy Wylde, an Accounting Manager at StrongArm, Inc., in Pittsburgh, PA. She recently learned that her elderly uncle had died and left her a rambling mansion in western Vermont. Dissatisfied with her life (and her boss) she decides, even after discovering that the place was in pretty bad shape, to have a go at making it commercially successful.

In a bid to impress the two furs that she has been attracted to for years, her old friends Chris and Sabrina Foxx, she has them over for dinner. But her plans for later that evening go somewhat awry.

She quits her job in a rather flamboyant manner, then throws herself a blowout going-away party, during which we learn that ten years previously she had lost an infant daughter to SIDS.

She heads on up to New Haven, Vermont, and settles in, beginning the enormous task of cleaning up the dilapidated old house, which she christens Ash Creek Inn.

She soon meets Martin O'Musca and his boss, Karl Luscus, the owner of The Fixit Shop and a personal friend of her uncle's. She learns a few things about her uncle from the gigantic wolverine, and finds herself intrigued with him. That isn't _nearly_ as intriguing as having a _wild animal_ talk to her, though, which happens shortly thereafter when a feral fox shows up at her back porch and communicates telepathically. After a short time, Sabrina comes up to visit, bringing her five children with her. However, during a brief bathroom break in the New Haven, some species-purist thugs attack her oldest daughter, Samantha. Martin is there and comes to her aid, then Karl shows up and finishes the fight, after which we learn that there are some very unusual things about him. Sabrina proves helpful in the cleaning process, but her youngest daughter, Alice, manages to break the well head. Karl arrives to replace it, and it soon becomes apparent that Samantha has a huge crush on Martin.

Sabrina stays a while to help, and Wendy really appreciates the company. Wendy tells Quinn Coonworth, owner of the local general store, about her conversation with the feral fox, and he tells her that it happened to him one time. The roof on the old house must be replaced, so she contracts it to be done. When the roofers show up, she is VERY taken with the forefur (and co-owner) Chase Cottrell. He, however, turns out to be a real heel. Martin is worried over what to do about Samantha (he gets tongue-tied around her) and Karl gives him some good advice. Later, Martin comes out to install a motor at the Inn, and he and Wendy talk, mostly about why he helped Samantha, and about how his father died, and about how he came to work for Karl. As a bid for some advertising, Wendy contributes some of her pastries to a church bake sale at Mercy Chapel, the church that Karl and Martin attend. She tries to hire some kitchen help, but the first few turn out very poorly. Karl fixes the damage for her. Word begins to get around about her cooking and she gets a few steady customers. She looks into hiring some electrical contractors, but the quotes she gets convince her to do it herself (with Karl's advice and guidance). But then Ellen Vison shows up to interview for the 'kitchen help' job, and they hit it right off.

Wendy is having a hard time re-running the wiring in the old house, and all the cleaning still to be done is a daunting task. Things get a lot easier when some of the locals show up to help one morning. Ellen turns out to be a natural in the kitchen, and a big help in some other areas, too. But then Wendy learns that Chase had stolen the money they got for her old slate tiles, and the new copper roof would cost her a lot more than she expected. A few days later Cinnamon Jones, a squirrel she met at Mercy Chapel, shows up with a vegetarian pizza. They talk for a LONG time and Wendy learns a great deal about the voluble girl and her daughter Emily. Meanwhile, Karl is mulling over the way he feels about Wendy and whether he ought to involve her in the mess of secrecy and subterfuge that is his life. He talks the situation over with his pastor, Alan Grey.

The next week Wendy decides to make a compass of the property just to see exactly what she's got. She comes across Karl who is fly fishing in Ash Creek, but she falls into the creek while trying to get a look at him. He fishes her out and they spend a couple of hours chatting while her clothes dry. He fixes lunch, and finally tells Wendy that she looks and smells exactly like an old lover of his, Phoebe Reynard, who died nine years ago. She quizzes him about his abilities as an inventor, pointing out a few of the devices or compounds she has seen him use, and is unsatisfied with his answers. He takes her back to the Inn, and ends up staying until evening.

. . .

. . .

. . .

_**Chapter One – Personae (Part A)**_

##

**Don't forget until it's too late that the business of life is not business, but living. **

**-B. C. Forbes**

**##**

_** Thursday 18 August 2016, 9:40am **_

Martin squinted closely at the calculator's display as he totaled up the day's receipts. He'd carefully entered each number into the old multi-column ledger splayed out over the countertop. His employer insisted on his doing it this way. He seemed to think it would help hone Martin's bookkeeping skills more than just entering the numbers straight into the database. Everything was in plain view; the way each column related to the others was more obvious. However, running the numbers the old-fashioned way meant lots of poking at the keys on his calculator.

As he finished the second check of his results, his ears picked up the engine sounds from Karl's dually. _Hah! Got done before he made it back. Good job, old fellow._ With a confident grin, he spun the ledger around to face his employer as the big wolverine walked in. Karl caught the expectant smile on Martin's face, so he came over and took a look at his efforts.

After only a few seconds, he said, "Not bad. No arithmetic errors. You're charging Ben too much for the work on that photovoltaic cell, though."

Martin frowned. "And where is it I've tacked him, then?"

"Right here. Remember, he's incorporated as a Subchapter-S. The things he uses to make his product don't get taxed."

"Och!"

"Not to worry. You only have to change three numbers." Karl watched in amusement as the dormouse hurriedly recalculated the charges and made the corrections in the ledger. "And don't worry. They won't leave without you."

The mouse glanced up at him momentarily. "Am I that obvious?"

Karl gave assent. "You look like you're standing on an anthill."

Martin's muzzle canted over into a wry grin. "Sure, and that's what it feels like. 'Tis less than two hours, now."

"You packed?"

"Aye. For two days." He flipped the big book back around to face Karl, who glanced at the numbers and nodded his approval.

"Very good. Off with you. Have fun."

"That I will, sir. And thank ye. We'll do good, Lord willin'." He grabbed his small napsack off the coat rack. "See ye next Wednesday!"

Karl waved him off. "Slán leat."

"Slán agat!" Martin zipped out the door, hopped onto his bicycle, and sped off toward the church. The youth group had borrowed a large van from one of the members, so all nine of them could fit in one vehicle for the drive to the beach. Seating was first-come, first-pick, and Martin wanted to sit as close to the front as he could get to avoid motion sickness.

Karl closed the shop, placing a notice on the door to the effect that he would be on vacation until the following Tuesday. Then he set up the security routines, and climbed the stairs to his loft. He picked up a garment bag and a wheeled, hard-sider duffle from beside the rack that held the bulk of his clothing, and toted them down to the small garage behind the shop where his truck was parked. Tossing everything onto the passenger seat, he hopped in and fired it up, heading out of town to the north on Highway 7.

##

_** 4:07pm **_

The pert, little marten femme behind the ticket counter breathed a short sigh of relief when she caught sight of the uniformed ocelot making his way through the crowd of irate travelers. He came around to the side and joined her, opening another workstation and motioning to the elderly canine at the front of the line.

"Thank goodness you got here, Jeffrey! I was afraid I was gonna get lynched." She pushed her glasses back up for the nth time. It was more than warm in the terminal, and she was sweating just enough to encourage them to slide down to her nose.

Jeffrey took the dog's ticket, helped him get his suitcase onto the scale, and started the boarding-pass process. "Oh, Kineesha, it's not that bad. I've seen the line reach all the way over to the International Concourse, during the strikes a few years back. We had to call in extra security."

She slid the boarding pass across the desk to the fur in front of her with a pleasant, "Seat Twelve-A, sir," and indicated the next fur in line. That hopeful passenger dragged her bags forward and passed her papers over to the agent.

"Well, I'm just glad I wasn't here then. This day has been about all I can stomach. Why is it so hot in here, anyway?"

"All the warm bodies. The air conditioning wasn't designed to manage this load." Focusing on the canine before him, he fired off, "Has-anyone-you-don't-know-given-you-anything-to-take-on-board-the-plane?"

"Nope."

"Have-you-left-your-bags-unattended-at-any-time-since-you-packed-them?"

"Nope."

"Thank you, sir. Seat Twenty-Two-D."

"Yep." He moved off toward the gate, and a young, extremely harried-looking otter femme with a twin four-year-old on either paw took his place.

Kineesha asked, "Anyfur tell you why the plane was late?"

"Martian invasion."

"You don't know either, huh?"

He chuckled. "You got me. Welcome to Laguardia. At least it finally made it to the gate." He turned back to the otter and asked the standard questions again.

The disembarkation notice came over the loudspeaker, advising the waiting passengers to keep well back from the gate until all the arrivals had come through. The portal opened and they began to emerge.

Fourth out was an elderly Kodiak bear, stooped and gray, who, likely due to his slight limp, leaned on a cane. He caused Kineesha to comment, "Hey, Jeff, lookit that."

Jeff was too busy to spare the enormous fur more than a passing glance. "Yes? He's a bear. Bears come through all the time."

"Bears that big?"

"Kodiaks are big. He's not an especially large specimen, even."

The bear got out to the main hall of the concourse and sat down, slowly and heavily, on the waiting courtesy cart. The driver tooted his horn and zipped off in the direction of Baggage Claim.

"Wow." She dispensed another boarding pass. "I'd sooner feed him for a day than a week."

"Heh-heh. Yeah, I imagine so." He glanced over at her. "You have the cutest little expressions."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes," he affirmed with a short nod. "You do."

"Comes from growing up in the South, I guess."

With a warm smile, he suggested, "Maybe you could teach me some of them over dinner."

She considered him for a few seconds, and shrugged. "Works for me."

They quickly forgot about the bear.

##

_** 5:20pm **_

The airport limo pulled up in front of the Grant, and the concierge and two doorfurs came trotting out to it. One opened the door, another helped the ancient bear get out, and the concierge welcomed him to the hotel.

A bellhop got the bags. Slowly, the group moved on into the lobby. As they paused in front of the elevators, the concierge assured their guest that his every whim would be law. "It will be our distinct pleasure to serve you during your stay here, Mr. O'Nimme."

"Please," he replied, in a soft, wavery voice, "you can call me Sidney. Or just plain Sid."

A muted bell sounded as the doors opened. "Very well, Sidney. You may call me Bert. If you need anything, any little thing at all, just give me a ring."

"I will be sure to do so. Thank you."

The doors shut and the elevator whisked its occupants away.

"Who's that?"

The concierge looked around at the doorfur. "Mr. Sidney O'Nimme."

"Well, yeah. But I mean, who is he? We're treating him like royalty."

"I don't know who he is. Never heard of him before last week."

"What's the deal, then?"

Bert put both paws on his hips and faced the fur squarely. "The deal is, he's the one who took the entire Palladian floor for a long weekend, that's what the deal is."

The doorfur's eyes got big. "The whole thing? The whole twelve-grand-a-night thing?"

"The whole thing."

A long whistle was his only response as he made his way back to the front door.

##

After the bags were stowed in the closet and the bellhop took his tip and left, Mr. Sid O'Nimme carefully locked the door, then moved over to the windows of the huge suite, and drew the curtains.

Fairly sure of his privacy at that point, Karl straightened up and allowed the kinks to melt out of his back, then went to the bath to clean off the disguise. His internal systems had no trouble dealing with the insulating effects of the extra padding, but the mask was cumbersome, and getting the adhesive out of his fur was usually quite a tedious chore.

##

_** Monday 22 August 2016, 11:17am **_

A taxi pulled up to one of the many towering, opulent, and otherwise anonymous buildings in the Financial District, paused long enough to emit a large, elderly fur in a three-piece pin-stripe, and sped off in search of its next fare. The wolverine had obviously passed his prime some time back. His muzzle was almost entirely gray, silver glinting in his headfur, and in two stripes running past his rheumy, red-rimmed, bespectacled eyes.

Karl walked into the lavish lobby and made his way to the elevators without bothering to check in with the receptionist, who tracked him with a curious gaze. Stepping into one of the two open ones, he pressed the button marked '37'. The doors closed with a subtle _whoosh_.

When the elevator opened again, he stepped into a small, tasteful anteroom opposite a pair of tall, brass-bound-oak doors. The legend 'Molier, Foucault, & Mustelidae' graced them about a meter and a half off the floor, in flowing, golden letters eight centimeters high. An interactive hologram in the form of a shapely mink was inset in the wall to the side, and served as doorkeeper. It looked up at him, smiled pleasantly, and said, "May I help you?"

Karl replied, in flawlessly inflected French, "J'ai un rendez-vous avec Philippe Foucault."

There was the tiniest hesitation while the program switched language subroutines. "Quel est votre nom, m'sieur?"

"Jean-Marc Latrien."

"Tres bien, m'sieur." It indicated a chair to the right of the elevator. "Vous pouvez avoir un siège tandis que vous attendez, si vous aimez."

_**[ From this point, Gentle Reader, Karl conducts his business in French. But for continuity's sake I'll just give you the English translation. It's easier on me and, as I mentioned before, I'm genetically predisposed to a high degree of laziness. ]**_

"Thank you, but I think I'll stand."

It returned to rest mode. Karl waited.

But less than two minutes passed before a real fur, a lop-eared rabbit femme of indeterminate middle age, ushered him in. He followed her down the long hall to the next-to-last door on the right, which she opened for him. He eased in and smiled at the old, black poodle behind the desk.

"Jean-Marc, my friend!"

"Good morning, Philippe."

The poodle got up and came around to shake his paw. "It has been too long. Have a seat, have a seat! Can I get you a cigar?"

"I'd love one, thanks," he replied as he took the proffered chair. "Cubans?"

"Absolutely." Philippe grabbed a box off his desk and held it out to Karl, who took one of the long, brown cylinders, sniffed it, and bit off the end. Philippe lit it for him, then propped himself against the front of his desk. "And what can we do for you today, eh?"

"I need to do another transfer."

"From which account?"

"Leeward Islands: Zebra-Bravo-two-seven-nine-Sierra-Juliette-five-four-five-Tango."

Philippe frowned for a second, concentrating, then got an enlightened expression. "Ah! That is why you are here in person! The transfer requires retinal print verification."

"Yes."

"Very good. And how much are we talking about?"

"Eighty million."

Philippe went back to his workstation and punched in a long string of information. After a couple of minutes, he said, "That will leave thirty-six million in that account. Does that sound right?"

"Should be thirty-six million, fifty-seven thousand, and change."

"Correct. Fifty-seven thousand, two hundred and twenty-eight, if you wish to be ridiculously precise."

"Close enough."

"And it will be going where?"

Karl set his briefcase on the desk next to the workstation and opened it. It contained a small super-computer and a variety of communication devices. He selected one and passed it to his friend. "Plug this in and I will tell you."

Philippe came around and examined Karl's setup. "I don't believe I've seen one of those. What make is it?"

"It's a custom job. Uses those new organic semiconductors. Processing speed is about two-point-eight teraHertz. Special, high-density graphics and com cards, and more memory than I will ever use."

The poodle watched while Karl flipped on the unit. The screen winked to life instantly and displayed the message, "Bon jour, Jean-Marc. Comment allez-vous aujourd'hui?"

"You leave it on all the time? Isn't that dangerous?"

"I didn't leave it on. It just boots up that quickly."

"Oh, my." Philippe took the com jack and plugged it into his system, initiating the data flow.

"Eight different investment banks, three mutual fund accounts, and a commodities house? You aren't diversified enough yet?"

"I like to play as many angles as possible. It makes for safer handling for one thing, and for another I like the challenge of keeping track of all of them."

"As you wish. I would offer to do your investing for you, but . . . ."

". . . But you know better. I get a higher return doing it myself."

"Indeed. An embarrassingly higher return. Some day I would like to figure out your methods. I know of a double pawful of investment firms that would cheerfully commit mass murder to obtain that information."

"And that is precisely why I have not shared it. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, as the saying goes, and few furs, if any, have the wisdom to use my methods subtly enough to keep from crashing the market."

"I am intrigued that you trust me with the bits you have." He considered the wolverine for a moment, and said, "I finally got that technique worked out for plotting up chromium futures, by the way."

Karl grinned. "So you must have sold your shares at the end of June."

"June twenty-sixth. They tumbled two days later. Saved me close to thirty million francs."

"Quite right. And when will you buy again?"

"Depends on whether Somiere wins the open election in Côte d'Ivoire. If he does, I'll buy in February. If he doesn't, not until next fall at the earliest. And meanwhile I watch the nickel index, in case Russia decides to get back in the game."

"Very good! Excellent! Well done."

Philippe passed him the retinal scan unit and Karl pressed it to his eyes.

The poodle watched for confirmation on his screen, then toggled to the destination codes. "Very well, my friend. The exchange will take place in . . . eighteen minutes." He rocked back in his chair and propped one foot up on his desk. "So until then, bring me up to date on your life. How is Tara?"

"Frisky as ever. She'll be a third-year at UW-Madison next month."

"Has she decided on a major yet?"

"Two, actually. Chemical Engineering and Robotics."

Philippe whistled. "She doesn't ever want to leave school, does she?"

"Well, she had to do some fast talking to get the dean to sign off on her schedule. She has twenty-eight quarter hours coming up, and thirty the quarter after that. If she can keep it up, she'll graduate with the rest of her class in the usual five years."

"And her grades?"

"Made a 'B' in Drama, and an 'B-' in Western Civilization. She disagreed with the Civ professor about some of the crucial turning points. Wouldn't toe the party line, as it were. Got an 'A' in everything else."

"She is an amazing girl. You must be very proud."

"You are right about that, my friend."

The conversation swung back and forth for the next several minutes until the workstation indicated that the transfer had gone through. Karl signed several sets of papers, and burned his retinal pattern on two more.

Philippe shuffled the stack into a neat sheaf and gave it to Karl, who put it in his briefcase beside the tiny computer.

"Thank you, Philippe. That should conclude my business."

"That sounds so final. I will be sorry to see you go today, my friend."

"Tell you what. Let's go have lunch, my treat. Anywhere in the city, whatever whim of indulgence you care to exercise."

The poodle thought for a minute. "How do you feel about Moroccan food?"

##


	2. Chapter 1 Personae Part B

_**Chapter One – Personae (Part B)**_

##

The two old furs arrived at the _Chateau Al Jadida_ in the middle of the lunch crowd. And 'crowd' was a very apt term for the place. It was packed. The over-worked fur at the desk let them know there would be a twenty-five minute delay. "But you can wait in the bar if you like. I think there are still some seats there." They wended their way over to the darkened room and took a booth along the wall. A waiter zipped over and deposited two glasses of water and a dish of mixed nuts on their table, took their drink orders, and hurried off.

"Smells good, Philippe. I haven't experienced North African cuisine in several years."

"Where have you had it before?"

"In North Africa."

"Ah. Well, that must have been before that mad dog, Gafah, came to power."

"It was. Well, truth to tell, it was just after."

. . .

Halfway across the room, a pair of extremely sensitive alopecoid ears heard a familiar sound and twitched around in the direction of the two old furs in the booth.

. . .

"Really! Where were you, exactly?"

"In Algeria, close to the Moroccan border. Gafah had installed himself in Libya, and his puppet government was still trying to get Algeria to come along. Egypt and Western Sahara had already fallen in with him. And you know how that turned out."

"Yes. A sad thing, that. And unless something has occurred in the last couple of days that I haven't heard about, his junta still runs all four countries."

"Right. And the Sudan, fawning and licking his feet, and Ethiopia on the brink of total collapse. It's a sorry situation."

. . .

The fennec fox at the bar was concentrating as hard as he had in a while. There was something about one of those voices that clenched his gut, but for the life of him he couldn't say just what. Where had he heard it before? It tugged at the frayed edge of a memory. Something unique . . . something . . . .

. . .

"So what were you doing there, my friend?"

"Oh, nothing terribly important." He waved it off with a small motion of one paw. "Just tying up some loose ends from a previous deal that had gone sour."

. . .

The fox jerked back in shock. His paw trembled violently, spilling some of his drink on the bar. He fought a desperate urge to turn and look at the two, and an even more desperate urge to bolt from the bar. _It cannot be! He is dead!_ He took a small prismatic mirror from one pocket and, palming it expertly, held it up beside his eye. Turning it slightly, he brought the pair into focus.

Yes. It was he. He had aged quite a bit, but it was unmistakably the same wolverine. He had survived! He must have the very Devil's own luck!

_What should I do? Well, first, naturally, don't let him see me. Old or not, I would not care to face him without_ _special weapons._

He had calmed down a bit, and ordered another cognac while he took some time to go over his options. Obviously, he would have to follow the big fur when they left. Find out what he's up to.

Oh, yes … and kill him.

. . .

"Gentlefurs? Your table is ready."

The pair of oldsters followed the young feline into the restaurant. The fennec fox surreptitiously moved to a better vantage point behind a potted plant, where he could observe them without being obvious about it. He ordered another drink, a much less potent one. He must keep his wits about him, he decided.

He had watched them for only a few minutes before concluding that he would need some help taking out his old enemy. He pulled out a small, military style PA and dialed a number. He spoke at some length with the other fur, finally nodding in satisfaction before breaking the connection.

And for the next seventy-five minutes, his target ate, and he bided his time. He did not, himself, have much of an appetite.

##

_** 2:05pm **_

The two friends stood side by side in front of the restaurant, trying to flag down a taxi.

"Jean-Marc, I pray you will not forget me."

"How could I, Philippe? Especially after that incredible meal!"

"Ha! The fur does hundreds of millions of dollars in business with me, and compliments me for food! You are, as the Americans say, a 'piece of work'."

A taxi pulled up then. Philippe gave his huge friend a hug, bid him farewell, and climbed in.

Karl watched a moment as the taxi trundled off down the street, then got his bearings and headed in the opposite direction. Unless it had been moved in the last five months, there should be an airport limo stand eleven blocks away. The convenience of remote checkout had eliminated his need for the bear disguise. He had plenty of time before his flight, the concierge had arranged to have his bags sent to the airport, and he always had enjoyed walking through this city.

He strode along in high spirits.

##

The fennec fox watched from over a block away as the four goons he'd hired closed in on the huge wolverine. He had given them as much information as he felt necessary to make the encounter both brief and fatal, and he didn't want to miss it. He pulled out a small, powerful set of binoculars and trained them on the scene, licking his flews in anticipation.

##

Karl maintained a certain level of awareness of his surroundings at all times, and being downtown always cranked it up a notch or two. He noticed the tail. Two furs, keeping their distance, but never lagging.

He kept an eye out across the street for a building with lots of glass, and was rewarded soon. He got to the crosswalk and headed over, tracking his shadows in its reflection.

Augmenting his vision, he examined the pair. Both dogs, both big, both nondescript. Both armed. Neither particularly good at what he was doing. One of them kept glancing back to his right. Karl scanned and located the third fur, another large, unexceptional canine.

He allowed himself a small grin. The Family Canidae.

He observed them for another couple of blocks. They carried pistols in shoulder holsters, but nothing heavy. Certain behavior characteristics led him to believe that there was at least one, possibly as many as three more he had not yet seen.

He'd need an alley. Preferably a dark one.

He turned left at the next intersection and headed for a more industrial area, varying his speed occasionally to see how they reacted. He calculated that he would still be able to make his flight on time, even with this little detour. After several minutes a fourth canine joined the first three, and they ganged and stepped up their pace. Karl increased his own speed just enough to get them to a jog-walk, and finally spied what he was looking for. He turned abruptly into a narrow lane between two tall warehouses, moved down about five meters, and leaned up against the wall. He could hear his followers' approach very clearly. At least one of them was out of shape, aerobically speaking, and was panting to keep up with his companions. They got to the entrance of the alley and whipped in, then skidded to a halt. Two of them had pistols drawn, and the third pulled his when he stopped.

They didn't mince words. The one in front motioned with his gun. "Let's have the case, Pops."

Karl stepped away from the wall, turning to face them squarely, holding the oversized briefcase loosely in front of his legs with both paws. He wore a small, sardonic smile. The fourth goon came lumbering into the passage at that point, gun in paw.

"Gentlefurs, I'll say this only once. You may put your weapons on the ground and go, and I will allow you to leave in peace. And in one piece." He paused when they made no move to do so. "You have eight seconds."

The two in front glanced, frowning, at each other, then back at him. "What's that shit?" said the shorter of the pair.

"Four seconds." Karl's benignly pleasant expression never wavered.

Four gun muzzles pointed his way. "Drop it, Bub! Now!"

Karl sighed. "Oh, well. It was worth a shot." He squatted and placed the briefcase on the ground.

Clearly, Karl could hear the heartbeats of his four attackers. He knew they were about to fire. He sprang erect.

And shot upward nearly six meters.

Three slugs ripped through the space Karl had just vacated. The thugs tried to readjust their aims, but they weren't used to thinking in three dimensions. Four more shots failed to touch him, and then he came down.

He landed feet-first on the shoulders of the last one to arrive, snapping both collarbones, one shoulder blade, and a few ribs as he drove the dog into the pavement, relieving him of his gun and one finger in the process. Karl flipped to the side, recoiled off the wall, and knocked the next nearest attacker into the opposite wall with a hammering kick to the side of his chest, breaking several ribs and puncturing his lung with three of them. The big canine caromed off the wall and lay on the ground in a silent heap. Continuing that one fluid movement, Karl used the heavy pistol he'd acquired like a discus, catching one of them in the muzzle. He flipped over backwards, went down and stayed there. Karl ducked a wild shot and snagged the last thug in a joint lock, breaking his elbow and wrist while disarming him.

Elapsed time from initial strike: 3.2 seconds.

Karl held his thumb against the big fur's carotid artery until he saw the dog's eyeballs roll back and he went lax. He dropped the unconscious form on the pavement and went to check on the one who'd played catch with the pistol: some of the facial bones were crushed, but his eyes appeared relatively undamaged and he was still breathing. _Excellent. I was afraid I'd thrown it too hard. Haven't killed anyone in quite a while, and I'd like to keep that record intact._

He went around and collected the other guns, then searched his assailants. He looked for ID and whatever clues he could find about who they were and why they were after him. They obviously did not know him at all, or they would have shot first and shot later. And used bigger guns. He wasn't worried about interrogating them. In his experience, one could seldom rely on information gathered from such a source.

He found three wallets, which he flipped through so he could look at all the cards, then put them back. He found a digital PA on one of them and a short-range wireless transceiver clipped to another's belt. He tucked the transceiver into one of his own pockets. There was a large roll of cash on one of the dogs. _So! Hired guns. That explains a lot. _ He left it lying on that fur's chest. He pulled a small pad of sticky-notes out of one of his pockets, scribbled a few lines on one, and stuck it to the wad of money. Then he dialed 911 on the confiscated PA and set it on the ground to act as a homing beacon for the emergency personnel.

He picked up his briefcase, walked on down the alley to about half-way, and leaped onto a fire escape. Scrambling up to the roof, he headed back toward downtown at a steady twenty-five klicks, jumping from building to building when necessary.

##

The fennec fox was getting antsy. He thought he'd counted eight shots, but no one had come back out of the little side path, and it had been almost two minutes.

He moved up the street another dozen meters or so, and looked around. Amazing in a city of almost twelve million that there could be places this deserted. A few furs had been ambling about here and there until the shooting started, but they'd disappeared quickly. A little traffic moved sluggishly in a cross street a couple hundred meters away. In the distance he heard the faint wail of a siren.

He wanted to know. He had to know. He moved on up the street until he could see into the alley. Then his fur stood on end and he raced across the road.

Wildly, he looked over the unconscious furs. He found the roll of bills and the note. It said, _"Friendly Advice: If at first you don't succeed, better give it up as a bad job."_ It was unsigned.

The fox shivered from nose to tail tip. The siren was getting louder. Quickly, he slit the survivors' throats, then he pocketed the money and took off at a dead run back the way he had come.

##

_** 3:20pm **_

The fennec fox's cab stayed two or three cars back from the limo carrying the big wolverine. Plain, dumb luck had played a major role in relocating his enemy: he'd been passing the limo stand when he saw the fur getting into one. Five seconds later, and he never would have gotten a glimpse.

When it became plain they were headed toward the airport, he got back on the phone. Five minutes later, cursing non-stop, he instructed the cab driver to follow the limo to the 'Departures' lane and let him out a couple of car-lengths from his quarry. He'd had no reliable accomplices available to meet him there on such short notice, and was going to have to do his own shadowing.

Not that it was any big deal. He'd been a master in that line of work for some years.

The wolverine gave a claim-ticket to the skycap, tipping him in advance. After only a couple of minutes he returned with two pieces of luggage, and they hurried on into the terminal, the fox trailing inconspicuously. They got to the local-commuter hub. The wolverine took his bags and sat himself down in the middle of the small sea of chairs.

That disgusted the fox. How could he find out where his enemy was going? No fewer than sixteen gates led off from this one area, and he certainly didn't have the resources to cover all the possible destinations. He would simply have to bide his time and purchase a last-minute ticket on whatever flight the wolverine took.

Nor did he have long to wait. Less than thirty minutes later, when the flight to Burlington, Vermont was called, the wolverine rose and joined the line of passengers at Gate Seven. The fox hurried over to the ticket agent, a long-haired white cat. His badge read 'Jonathan R.'

"I'd like a one-way ticket to Burlington, please." He passed his identification and debit card to the agent.

"Yes, sir." He tapped away at the keys. The fox, fidgeting with impatience, kept eyeing the line filing slowly into the gate.

After half-a-minute, the cat asked, "Do you prefer a window seat or an aisle seat?"

"I don't care."

"Are there any allergies or dietary restrictions we should . . ."

"No! I'm fine!"

"Very good, sir." He tapped away some more. Presently he asked, "Do you have any items of luggage with you that you wish . . ."

"No! No luggage! No carry-on items, no nothing! Just get me on that flight!"

If the fox's lack of tact bothered the agent, he didn't show it. "Yes, sir." He tapped a few more keys, and the machine spat out a boarding pass. "Here you are, sir, have a pleasant . . ." He was talking to empty air.

The last regular passenger had entered the gate and the final call was sounding for flight 2770 to Burlington. The fox flipped his boarding pass to the gate agent and made to step into the metal-detector.

"Sir?"

He stopped. "What is it?"

"Which flight did you want, sir?"

"That one!" He pointed down the narrow aisle where he could see the other furs filing out onto the tarmac and toward the turboprop parked there.

"This pass is for the next flight, sir."

"_**WHAT?**_"

"Umm . . ." The agent took an involuntary step backward at the fury in the fox's eyes. "Your boarding pass is for the 6:15 flight."

"Let me see that!"

The other fur gave him the pass. The fox glanced at it and angrily stomped over to the ticket counter.

"I told you I wanted to get on that flight!" He pointed out the window at the plane.

"Sir, you asked for a ticket to Burlington. Since that flight was already here, I assumed you meant the next one. Ticketing closes ten minutes before boarding, you know."

"I HAVE TO GET ON THAT PLANE!"

"But, sir . . ."

"JUST DO IT! Make 'em wait!"

The agent checked his flight list, and answered, "I'm sorry, sir, that flight is full."

_Full? Damn! This can NOT be happening!_ "How about a stand-by? I know there are always some passengers who no-show."

"No, sir. That flight is _full_. There are no spare seats. In fact, it was overbooked, and we had to offer a bonus to two of the furs so they'd take the next one.

The fox's frustration knew no bounds. He searched his mind frantically for an out, but came up empty. Slowly, he walked over to the big window, watching in disappointment as the passenger door closed, the plane backed away from the gate, turned, and taxied out to the runway. It went out of sight around to the left.

He moped over to the seating area and flopped into a chair. _Okay. Fine. That didn't work. But I know where he's going. _He opened his PA and punched in a number.

"This is Grayson."

"Tablet."

There was a pause. "Secure?"

"Affirm."

A longer pause. "Thank you, sir. What is the nature of your complaint?"

"The product is defective. I need to have it picked up for service."

"Do you require the standard service?"

"I think the Customer Service Team should be involved. This is a major defect."

"I . . . see. Where do we need to go to pick up the product?"

"Burlington, Vermont."

"We can have someone out there in the morning, sir, unless this is an emergency. Do you have any equipment down as a result of the defect?"

"Not yet. But the possibility exists."

"Thank you, sir. We will call you back when we have the Service Team assembled."

They broke the connection.

The fox leaned back in his chair for a few minutes, thinking. Several possible scenarios vied for dominance in his mind, but no single one had enough weight to discard the others. He shrugged, got up, and headed back toward the main terminal, and the food court located there. He'd skipped lunch, and by no means did he wish to depend on the airline's interpretation of 'food' for his supper.

Tomorrow promised to be interesting. At the very least.


	3. Chapter 2 Interlopers Part A

_**Chapter 2 – Interlopers – Part A**_

**Anyway, no drug, not even alcohol, causes the fundamental ills of society.  
****If we're looking for the source of our troubles, we shouldn't test people for drugs,  
****we should test them for stupidity, ignorance, greed and love of power.**

– _**P. J. O'Rourke**_

##

_** Tuesday 23 August 2016, 7:28pm **_

Tuesdays are well known in the restaurant industry for being slow. And although the Denny's on the bypass never failed to average a brisk custom each week, fewer than a third of the available seats were filled this night. Several families, and some few businessfurs, occupied roughly the front half of the establishment, and for the most part the mood in the place tended toward light, even happy, conversation. Perhaps that lent an extra measure of contrast to the rowdy group at the back of the smoking section.

Leather predominated. Various piercings, shavings, and fur-art were also well-represented. And many of the dozen or so furs at the two large booths had obviously been worshipping at the alter of Bacchus prior to their arrival. The manager kept a weather-eye on them, but had not deemed police involvement necessary. As yet.

So, when G. W. arrived, he had no difficulty whatsoever locating his group. A couple of them, a tall gray fox and a much shorter ferret, saw him coming and got up to meet him.

They slapped paws. "G-man. You on it, fur."

"S'right." He followed them back to the table. Most of them he already knew, but a few introductions were made around.

G. W. jumped right to the point. "Caleb, when we goin' after 'em?"

"Chill." The big gray made a 'down' motion with one paw. "We got lots more of the gang wants in on this one. They be here. Soon 'n' soon."

"They been in that hole six, seven weeks! We gotta . . ."

"Said chill, man. Get the stats, get the time, do it right, do it once." He leaned toward the younger fox. "Make 'em remember. They'll remember us, good."

G. W.'s muzzle pulled back slowly into a wide grin. "Gotcha. Do it right, do it once. Get ourselves some payback."

"That's the idea. Make 'em think twice before messing with the Knights again."

**_[ Normally, Gentle Reader, I don't like to rely on plain exposition if it can be helped, but I'll make an exception here. You should know that Graeme Walker Vulpexa had not experienced what most furs would consider a 'normal' kithood. He was an only child, for one thing, which is very unusual for foxes, especially when it is intentional. His parents doted on him, and never denied him anything if they could help it. Being members of one of the 'old' families of the New South, in particular one that had managed not to lose all its 'old' money, there were very few items he couldn't have, once he set his avaricious little heart on something. And trust me on this: he grew up to be one of the most selfish, callous brats it would ever be your misfortune to meet._**

_**His parents, for reasons no one else could fathom, fostered this attitude for the first seventeen years of his life, after which time it seemed that a light came on in the attic, so to speak. Perhaps it was due to his wrecking his cousin's sportscar while driving with a suspended license. Or perhaps it was due to his having stolen that car. Or maybe it was the fact that the driver of the car he sideswiped (a young mother of two) would be spending the rest of her days in a wheelchair, and in more-or-less constant pain. Or that the resulting lawsuit, and the damages awarded, put a serious dent in the family fortune. **_

_**Maybe. **_

_**But the most likely explanation, in my mind at least, is that young Master Graeme never showed the first iota of remorse or contrition for his actions. He felt fully justified in what he'd done. He had taken the car for the very sound, very logical reason that he wanted it. He had been traveling sixty klicks too fast for conditions because he enjoyed the feeling of power it gave him, and be damned to anyone who would say him nay. Nor (in his twisted logic) did he ask that stupid twit of a female to be coming around a blind curve at just that particular instant. Her bad luck, as far as he was concerned. She should have been elsewhere.**_

_**So his parents put the foot down, and the war began. He would not submit to authority, and after two years of trying, the best they knew how, to undo the previous seventeen years of indulgence, they gave up and told him he could come back when he got some sense. That was in 2014.**_

_**Needless to say, that hasn't happened yet. Nor do prospects look good for any time in the near future. But we will come to that later, as you will see. ]**_

G. W. hesitated, then asked, "So . . . when is everybody else gonna get here?"

The ferret spoke up. "Toldja. Soon. Next week, week after. Don't matter too much 'bout them, though. Damien's comin' in, and we ain't startin' nothin' 'fore he gets here."

"_Damien!_"

"Yeah. He'll be here on the fifteenth." He reached over and punched G. W. lightly on the arm. "You callin' up the big guns, son."

"S'right!" put in the gray fox. "he'll most likely wanna wait 'til he's had time to check it out himself. Prob'bly not 'til the weekend."

A lean puma at the next table spoke up. "Crow, man! The High Lord Knight comin' here. We gonna get us a _presence_ in this here state."

Murmurs of 'Bout damn time!' and 'Got that straight!' and 'Yaw! Start the party!' arose from the assembled furs.

Grinning, Caleb let the comments run down, then turned back to the latecomer. "Now, G. W., tell us what you know about this jail."

##

_** Thursday 01 September 2016, 5:06pm **_

In an average day, Wendy had the holodisk player going maybe half the time. Her extensive collection of classical, jazz, and pop ensured that she would have no shortage of variety, and she liked queuing up the files, without looking at the album names, and running them in random order so she could guess what they were. It was a game she'd been playing with herself for a couple of years, and she rarely failed to correctly identify a piece.

But this evening she had opted for quiet. Ellen wouldn't be in attendance: she had a date. So Wendy was flying solo. She'd just finished her daily decompression on the rear porch, and it was almost showtime. She had both ears wide open in expectation, and so heard the droning of a powerful engine before it even turned into the drive.

She rinsed off her paws in the sink, wiped them on the towel hanging from one side of her apron, and left the kitchen, headed for the porte cochère.

She got to the door in time to see Karl's big dually pull up. The energetic fur hopped out of the cab and bounced over to the entrance, his face a picture of anticipation.

Wendy opened the door. "Good evening, sir. Welcome to Ash Creek Café."

He stopped and made a courtly bow. "My dear lady, I expect the pleasure to be primarily mine."

"Well then, come on in." She stepped back and swept her arm out to indicate the east half of the South Hall.

He walked along the passage to the second door on the left, and entered the Private Dining Room. Wendy had arranged the long table with seating for one, at the head, and most elegant it was, indeed. The rich, dark, walnut surface gleamed like glass, the china and silver twinkling in the light cast from two huge candelabra. A variety of covered platters dotted the table in front of the setting.

Karl took his seat, drew in a deep whiff of the various aromas, and rubbed his paws together. "Have I told you lately just how much I appreciate your facility with chilis?"

"Only every time you drop by. But that's okay, I'll get over it." She took the cover off a plate stacked high with large, oval flour tortillas. "These have the powdered aji pepper cooked in, to give them a little zing." She uncovered another, smaller serving bowl that was mounded with crisp, flattened, brown objects. "Got your freshly smoked chipotles here." Karl picked one up and held it in front of his nose, then popped the whole thing into his mouth, chewing with evident relish. "And here is your choice of garnish." She indicated a divided tray containing pico de gallo, yogurt, sour cream, pickled serranos, green olives stuffed with bits of manzana, fresh tomatoes, and guacamole. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll go fetch the main course."

The big fur placed a few chipotles and several olives on one of the tortillas, spooned a little pico de gallo over all, and rolled it up. He took a bite that reduced its length by a third, and said, "Take your time. This spread looks like it needs a bit of experimentation." He scoffed the rest of his appetizer as Wendy made her way to the kitchen.

Karl had become something of a regular, more so than her other customers at any rate. He'd reserved the early slot on both Tuesday and Wednesday the week after that – "incident" – at the Creek, and Monday and Tuesday of this week. The events leading up to her fall into the water had never seemed important enough to him to cause comment, for which she was grateful. She still winced in embarrassment occasionally at the thought of how that might have turned out.

When he called that first time to make a reservation, he had inquired as to whether she ever did anything "spicy". She'd paused a few seconds before deciding that he was speaking in terms of food only, and then allowed as how she did turn out the occasional hot dish.

He requested that she burn the chair out from under him. And she gave it a shot. But he never so much as turned a hair. Didn't even break a sweat.

Over the next three meals, she had steadily turned up the heat, and all he ever did was lavish compliments on the quality and quantity of the food. And tip well. She couldn't decide whether to be upset or merely intrigued at his seeming immunity to pain.

So tonight she was pulling out all the stops. The chicken, carrots, and onions had marinated for four hours in a hellish brew of red habañero mash and distilled capsicum extract. The sauce was a cooked-down version of the same, with bits of garlic and freshly chopped scotch-bonnet thrown in for good measure. She went to great pains to avoid getting any of it on her anywhere, had kept the hood fan going the whole time, and still the concoction had driven her from the kitchen twice.

_Tonight, my fine fur, we shall test your mettle for real._ She finished arranging the various pieces in the large serving dish (the recipe used two whole chickens and was supposed to serve eight) and carried it out to the waiting wolverine. Setting it down and lifting the lid with a flourish, she took a quick step back from the table and offered, "If this doesn't set your chimney on fire, I give up. This would classify as insane in anyfur's book."

"Cool." He reached for the serving spoon.

"No. Not by a damn sight."

His muzzle curled at her comment. Then he placed two pieces of the chicken and a few vegetables on a tortilla, ladled some sauce over it, wrapped it up, cut off a generous bite, and popped it into his mouth.

Wendy watched him intently.

He chewed and swallowed, eyes closed. "That's heavenly." He cut another bite, and another. No sweat. No panting. Not even a twitch.

"What are you made of, anyway? Hyperpolymer?"

His head jerked around to stare at her in surprise for a second. "What did you say?"

She pointed at his plate. "That stuff _almost_ qualifies as a weapon. You could remove oil stains from concrete with it. I can't get within three fe . . . a meter of it, and there you are stuffing it down like it was cotton candy. Do you even _have_ any taste buds left?"

He grinned at her. "My taste buds probably work better than yours do. That has nothing to do with resistance to heat, and you know it."

"But, still! This is ridiculous! That stuff would send most furs to the hospital with a paralyzed diaphragm! Doesn't it bother you _at all_?"

"No. It just tastes really, really good."

She shook her head, chuckling to herself. "Beats all I've ever seen. Thought I knew something about hot food . . ."

"But you do! This dish is extraordinarily hot. And you're right – it would peel the skin off most furs' tongues. You did a great job." He was assembling another fajita-from-hell while he spoke, and dug in.

"Just watching you is making my eyes water."

"Why is that?"

"I know what's in that stuff, remember?"

He held a large forkful up to his eye. "Right." He ate it. "Tastes like you used an extract. I don't know of any naturally-grown peppers that can get as hot as this.

"Yep." She edged toward the door. "Well, listen, if you need anything just give that bell a shake. I'll be working on the cinnamon sauce."

"Hey, don't let me stop you! Far be it from me to stand in the way of cinnamon tarts. I'm happy as a clam. Happier, even." He snickered to himself. "Never really knew where that saying came from. Clams don't strike me as particularly happy creatures."

"You must be thinking of 'The Walrus and the Carpenter'."

"Well, no. That was oysters. But it's a good example." He returned his attention to the generous meal, and Wendy returned to the kitchen.

She had learned after his first visit as a paying customer that normal portions simply did not apply: he could, and would, put away more food than any other _two_ furs in her experience. She had no doubt he would dispatch the entire tureen of chicken and vegetables, and probably sop out any remaining sauce with the tortillas. And he would very likely do away with all twelve of the cinnamon tarts she'd made for dessert.

She got busy with the sauce. This was a local dish, one that she'd only recently picked up. It was a little tricky to get it to thicken properly without the spices clumping, but she had discovered that if she sifted together half the cinnamon with the flour first, and added the rest with the sugar after the milk, it made it a lot more manageable.

When some ten minutes had passed, and it had reached the desired consistency, she removed it to a cooling iron. She peeked into the convection oven to monitor the progress of the barbecue for the later group of diners, then went back to check on Karl. He was, as she'd expected, cleaning out the bowl. The tortillas and most of the sides were gone, as was the entire bottle of wine.

She picked it up and shook it to make sure. "Would you like another one?"

"Oh, no. Not with cinnamon tarts. Milk's the thing, there. The richer, the better."

She couldn't help but smile at his enthusiasm. "Sure thing. I've got some of the raw stuff, if you want. It's from Mr. Smathers, sort of an additional 'thank-you' for the Beef Wellington last week. Cinnamon brought it with her last night."

"You skim the cream off yet?"

"Nope."

"Well, stir it up and bring it on!"

She paused at the door and turned back to him. "You know . . . it's a real pleasure to cook for someone who is as appreciative as you are."

"Young lady, if my appreciation brings results like these every time, I will be as fulsome with it as I know how." He laid a finger along his muzzle and turned an eye toward a corner of the ceiling. "Of course, there is also the fact that I don't believe it would be possible for me to consume a delicious meal _without_ expressing my delight."

"Um . . . right. I'll, uh, go get the tarts." And she hurried back to the kitchen.

##

_** Friday 02 September 2016, 10:00am **_

. . . . . . . . . . . . _knock-knock_ . . . . . .

"Zzzzzzz."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _knock-knock_ . . . . . . .

"Zzz – snkx – hmmm?"

. . . . . _**knock-knock**_ . . . . . .

"Wizzit?" Danielle Loppe labored to climb out of a deep, somnolent fog. She blinked sleepily a few times, and called a little louder, "Who is it?"

A low, female voice came through the door. "Prithee, Milady, thou didst leave instruction to be awakened for the mid-morn nuncheon."

Danielle had never been a morning furson. And after the night she had just shared with her new husband, she wasn't too keen on being a noon furson, either. She rubbed her eyes with both paws, yawned, stretched, decided it felt good and stretched again, pushed her long, silky ears back over her shoulders and, calling upon her masterful command of the language, said, "Huh?"

"Milady, thou didst request to be awakened at the hour of ten. It striketh even now."

Events were slowly falling into place. She remembered where she was. The nice fox-lady who ran the place called this the "Fairy-Tale" Suite. Max had brought her here yesterday evening, after the reception. He'd been really mysterious about their honeymoon destination, and when they'd arrived, the opulence of the enormous Inn, the liveried servant, and the iced champagne and strawberries waiting in their Receiving Room had thrilled her to the core. The medieval boudoir had formed the capstone to a perfect evening.

And what had followed had been _much_ better, even, than that.

She looked over at the scrumptious, black hunk of rabbit sleeping beside her, and smiled. "Okay. Thanks. We're up."

"Very good, Milady. Nuncheon awaits thee whenever thou art ready."

She scooted over and snuggled against him. He moved in half-sleep, rolling over to face her and snaking one arm under her pillow and around to her slim back. She ruffled the fur on his chest with the fingers of one paw, remarking anew the elegant contrast her glimmering, light-silvery-gray fur made with his. _"Like onyx in a setting of platinum," _she thought. She moved her paw in lazy circles down his chest to the hard, flat abdominal span, and began a light, tickling massage there. Her fella was serious about his time at the gym. Not that she wasn't: she did aerobics three or four times a week. That's where they had met. But Max had been into heavy free-weights for some years now, and it showed in the masses of muscle under the smooth, ebony fur.

She caught her breath when she felt him begin lightly scratching her lower back, right above her tail, then sighed in bliss as he found _that spot_ again. She looked up into his laughing, gray eyes, and whispered, "Good morning."

"As long as I can wake up next to you, my dear wife, it _is_ a great morning, no matter what else happens."

She turned her hips, arched her back slightly, and stretched out one leg to give him better access to her lumbar region. "I love hearing you call me that."

"And I love being your husband."

"And you really are . . . ohhh . . . really, really . . . mmmmmmmmm . . . good at it. Ohh-hh-hh-hh. . . ." Her breath was coming in little gasps.

His smile grew even bigger as he wrapped his other arm around her. "Do you think maybe brunch can wait?"

Her fierce kiss was all the answer he needed.

##

Ellen pulled her watch out of the belt pouch she wore under the tabard and checked the time. "Hey Wendy?"

"Hmm?" She didn't look up from the cookie dough she was kneading.

"It's pushing eleven really hard."

"Yes? And that means what?"

"The Loppes still haven't come down yet. Their meal's been sitting there for over an hour, now."

Wendy chuckled. "That's why I fixed a spinach timbale for the main course. It's a lot more durable than a soufflé, and as long as it stays tightly covered, it should be fine until supper, if they take that long."

Ellen sniffed. "You'd think they'd need to eat sometime, just to keep up their strength."

"Hey, they're both young, they're both in good shape, and . . . well, they're both rabbits."

"Heh! Right. I see your point. So, not to worry?"

"Not to worry."

##

It nearly _was_ noon when they finally made it down to the dining room, dressed and more or less in their right minds. A covered chafing dish sat on the sideboard, flanked by a glass-enclosed display of pastries and fresh fruit on one side and a nice selection of fruit and vegetable juices in liter bottles set into a tub of crushed ice on the other. A small sign proclaiming "_Help Yourself_" was propped against the glass.

Danielle slid back the cover on the chafing dish, and a cloud of aromatic steam wafted out. "Oh, wow! Honey, come smell this!"

Max had hooked himself a platter and dropped a sticky-bun and a bunch of grapes on it. He sidestepped over to his wife, leaned down and took an appreciative sniff. "Wassome! I love spinach."

"Yeah, me too." Danielle served him some, then scooped a large helping of the fluffy, light green stuff onto her own plate, added a crumpet and a pawful of strawberries, and followed Max over to the table.

He held her chair for her, then asked, "Whatcha want to drink?"

"If that's carrot juice on the end over there, I'd like one."

Max got one for each of them, and they set to.

Danielle was working on seconds and Max going after thirds when Ellen walked into the room. She bowed and said, "A blessed good morrow to thee both. And how didst thou sleep?"

Danielle smiled around a bite of strawberry and glanced at Max, who grinned and said, "Oh . . . off and on." His wife sputtered and nearly lost the berry.

Ellen couldn't _quite_ keep her face straight. "Marry, I am sorry to hear that. Perhaps I should find thee some softer pillows?"

"No," said the doe, swallowing and grinning broadly. "I don't think softer pillows would help. But that's okay. I wouldn't worry about it too much." Turning that thousand-watt smile on her husband, she said, "We'll get by."

"As thou sayest, Milady. Dost thou require aught else?"

Max had returned to the table and laid a paw on Danielle's shoulder. "You need anything, Honey?"

She rubbed her cheek against the back of his paw, looked up at him and said, "You've already got everything I need, babe."

He leaned down and kissed her forehead, then both her eyes.

That pretty effectively tuned Ellen out, so she bowed again and left. _Sheesh! Newlyweds! I can't see me getting that gooey over __anybody__._

She went across the Main Hall, walked into the Lower Passage and over to the large spiral staircase at its northern end, and trotted up to the second floor. Slipping along the western wing of the Servant's Walk to the last room on the right, she eased open the door and sniffed, then blinked and shook her head. The pheromones still loitered about rather thickly, so she went over to the windows and opened them halfway. That side of the house was in shadow most of the time, and the light breeze was pleasant, despite the noon heat of late summer.

The mink straightened up the room, noting with a smile the fact that all the pillows but one lay on the floor beside the bed, and all the covers were scrunched into a wad at its foot. She pulled all the bedclothes off and threw them into the Walk, keeping them well away from her face. They were heavy with mating scent, and could be quite a distraction.

She quickly made the bed, sprayed the room with neutralizer, dragged the used things down to the laundry, and got a load started, then rejoined Wendy in the kitchen.

The vixen was perched on a stool beside the landline, phone in paw. "Yes, that's right. 'By reservation' is the only way we operate. We don't take walk-ins. . . . Certainly. . . . Which weekend did you have in mind? . . . Well, you lucked out, my friend, because the couple that was going to be here then went into labor two days ago and cancelled on me. . . . Absolutely. I've got one weekend not spoken for between now and Thanksgiving. . . . Okay. That will be three days and two nights for three hundred and fifty dollars, and it includes . . . Excuse me? . . . No, I'm not really set up for that. . . . Well, you see, I run a restaurant as well, on the days we don't have guests at the Inn. . . . Oh, really? How long have you been married? . . . Well! Congratulations. That beats most couples I know. . . . Yes, I understand. This sounds like it's very important to you. But I still don't know that it would work, you see. I have arrangements for extra help to be on-paw for the weekends to take care of the . . . Right. . . . Uh-huh. . . . Yes, but . . . ."

She gave Ellen an exasperated look and held one paw up, making yak-yak motions with it. The mink giggled.

"Well, I'll have to tell you, Mr. Evans, you are nothing if not persistent. . . . Yes, but it would increase the cost by rather a lot. I have the 'package' put together a certain way, and it works out well for me. . . . Oh, you would? How much? . . . Oh!" Her eyes widened considerably. "I see. Well, _ahem_, I think we can arrange something suitable for you in that case."

Wendy gave Ellen the 'thumbs-up' sign. Ellen mouthed, _'How much?'_ Wendy held up a paw, every digit spread wide, then closed and opened her paw twice more. Ellen's jaw dropped. "Twelve hundred?"

"Yes, sir. That's correct. You'll be free to come and go as you please. . . . Well, actually, if you give me a copy of your itinerary, we can have a light supper for you as well. . . . Heh. Not to brag, but I don't think you'll be needing much lunch after one of my breakfasts. . . . Okay, that sounds good. I'll put you into the system. . . . Right, Mr. and Mrs. Lee Evans, seven days, six nights. . . . Uh-huh. . . . Yes, you can find a map on the web. . . . Oh, you _did_ find it on the web! Great! What did you think of the site? . . . Glad to hear it. . . . Yes. A local, um, contractor did the programming." She looked back at Ellen and mouthed, _'Good job.'_ "Yes. . . . Right. Is that how you found us? . . . Oh, a referral, huh? Would you mind if I asked who? . . . _WHAT?_ You're kidding! . . . No, she's just one of my best friends in the world, that's all! How do you know her? . . . Ohhhh, that Clique thing. Right. . . . Well, well. Small world. . . . No, I think it's terrific. I'm looking forward to meeting you both. . . . Thanks, you too. Take care." She hung up.

"Okay, spill it," demanded Ellen.

"You remember me telling you about my friend Sabrina?"

"Sure."

"That was the husband of a friend of hers. She was part of this group of over-achievers in college. They called themselves 'the Clique'. It was Sabrina, and her high-school friend Susan, and Debbye Squirrel, that would be Debbye Evans now it seems, and Cindy . . . Cindy . . . oh, crap. What was her . . . Lapine! Yeah, that's it. She hooked up with a skunk guy. I don't remember what became of Susan. Heck, I haven't heard any news about them since . . . yeah, since I got married. Some of them came to the wedding. Debbye did, I remember."

"Cool! You got pictures of 'em?"

Wendy's expression twisted. "Umm . . . I used to. Arthur, . . . well, . . . he, uh, . . . he burned our wedding album."

Ellen leaned back against the counter, becalmed. ". . . . . . . . . . . . . Say what?"

Wendy sighed. "It was the second time around with that cult thing he got involved in. They about half-convinced him to sever all ties with the past. He started with mine." She had slumped a little, and the deep distress on her face concerned Ellen.

The mink spoke up, "Hey, Wendy, look, I didn't mean to go resurrecting anything ugly here. Sounds to me like a subject neither one of us wants to dwell on." She went over to the big oven and peeked in. "Whatcha got cookin'?"

Wendy took a couple of deep, cleansing breaths, shook her head, and hopped down off the stool. "Thanks, girl. These are more American Crisps for Elly. She was as good as her word. Sells about a hundred and forty a day, on average, most on the weekend, so I have to get her a good stock on Fridays."

"Tidy."

"Yep. Say, listen, I've got to run over to Bristol to the specialty butcher shop before they close at four. Can you keep an eye on things for a couple hours?"

"No prob. What you after?"

"Rattlesnake and two fresh alligator tails for Karl's big Cajun do on Monday. The shop sent me an e-mail saying it had arrived."

"Great! Hey, you've got somebody comin' over every night next week, don't you?"

"That's right. Two shows a night, Monday through Thursday. A little haute cuisine here, a little Jamaican jerk there. Nothing difficult. The variety keeps things interesting." Wendy shrugged out of her apron and hung it back up in the closet. "Sure you'll be okay with our guests?"

"Oh, yeah." Ellen giggled again. "Though I doubt there'll be much to do. I'll bet you a doughnut the Loppes will be back upstairs for most of the afternoon."

"Geez, you think so?"

"You didn't smell the pheromones. I'd lay odds she's in heat."

"You're kidding!"

"Nope. Just taking their bedclothes to the laundry got me hot. Had to fight the urge to give Rob a call."

"Good grief. You'd think they'd be a little more cautious than that. If we had anybody else visiting here, it could cause some real problems."

"Heh. Yeah, it's not like you can come right out and say, 'Stay home if you're in heat.' on the website."

"Um, no. That wouldn't be politic. But it's just good manners not to go sharing that sort of thing around."

"Ain't that the truth!" Ellen took a look at the cookies. "Ten minutes on these?"

"Right. The shooter is here, the dough is here, and I've got three ovens on it, staggered at three-minute intervals."

"Gotcha. Go get your reptiles."

"See you later."

##


	4. Chapter 2 Interlopers Part B

_**Chapter 2 – Interlopers – Part B**_

**Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass on a summer day  
****listening to the murmur of water, or watching the clouds float across the sky,  
****is hardly a waste of time.**

– _**Sir J. Lubbock**_

##

_** Early September 2016 **_

Tourist season in New England means that lots of – well – tourists can be found tooling around the countryside. It's a good chunk of income for many of the states and provinces in that part of the continent, and most of those areas do their best to make the visitors feel at home. That's great from a business-generation standpoint. Happy tourists stay longer and spend more.

The problem comes in when the visitors have an agenda that has nothing to do with tourism.

Every day or two more of them would filter in. From Louisiana. From Florida. From Indiana. From Nevada and Mississippi and New York and Idaho and Missouri and the Carolinas and a double dozen other states. Sometimes alone, sometimes in groups, a couple of times in large groups. Felines, mustelids, canines, ursinoids. The order Carnivora was very well-represented. Not that everyfur intended to take part in the operation itself, not by any means. Only a select few would have that honor. But word gets around when a shift of such magnitude is about to occur. Everyone who could, everyone who had the opportunity, wanted to be a part of it. And Vermont had never been the target of a major recruiting drive before.

The Knights were coming.

##

_** Tuesday 6 September 2016, 2:12pm **_

Wendy flopped down into her office chair, leaned back for a prodigious stretch-and-yawn and swiveled around to the computer perched on the desk against the wall. She had all the long-cooking items for the evening underway (the goat for the jerk had been barbecuing since dawn) and all the short-preparation ingredients ready to go when needed. Time to catch up on her e-mail.

_A nap would be better!_ That small, accusing voice nagged her more and more frequently of late. But she could usually anesthetize it with a cup or two of coffee.

Since her main system administered the website, she had to use a land-line to support it. They still hadn't gotten around to making this area satellite capable, a fact that irked her not infrequently. It meant that she had to use a modem (no broad-band connections available out in the county) and was held to its snail-like speed. At least it was reliable, which was more than could be said for the general phone service.

She dialed in and waited while the messages listed out. She had twenty-three, nearly half of them junk mail. Two contained viruses, and went immediately into the scrap can. Four were requests for recipes. It had been Ellen's idea to offer the recipes via the website as a hook to get potential customers to share their addresses, and it was working like a charm ought to, if the charm were any account. She had several inquiries into bookings at the Inn, three catering RFQ's, one short note from Samantha (!) about coming back to the Inn sometime soon, and one message from an address she didn't recognize. But the tag line rang a bell. She opened it.

_Dear Ms. Wylde,_ it read_, I enjoyed our conversation the other day when I booked the 15__th__-21__st__ at Ash Creek Inn. I have spoken to Sabrina at some length concerning the accommodations there, and she has nothing but praise for your restoration efforts. She has the same high regard for your abilities as a chef, and so it is with great anticipation that I look forward to our stay. I was wondering if I could impose upon you for one other thing. We will be stopping in Montpelier the night of the 14__th__. I have arranged for a hotel, but would greatly appreciate your recommendation for a nice place to take Debbye for supper. She is a squirrel, and vegetarian to a large degree, while I am feline. If you know of a place that would cater to both our needs, I would consider it a huge favor._

_Kindest Regards,_

_Lee Evans_

_p.s. – I am sending this from my place of business because Debbye doesn't know the particulars of our destination, and I would like to surprise her._

Wendy leaned back in the chair. "Well. He certainly seems thoughtful enough." She laced her fingers behind her head and pondered. The capitol was chockablock with places that fit his description. Wendy was only really familiar with a few of them, though. Maybe a bit of research was in order.

She was pretty sure Ellen wouldn't know. Though a native, she'd confided that she had never been to the nation's smallest capitol city even once. Wendy pulled her PA out of a pocket and hit the speed-dial for Harper Fenton. Rose answered on the second ring. "Fenton & Associates. How may I direct your call?"

"Ah . . . this is Wendy Wylde." _Idiot! You knew he wouldn't answer personally!_ "I'd like to speak with Har – um, Mr. Fenton. If he has a minute."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Fenton is out of the office today. Would you like his voice-mail?"

"Ah . . . no, thanks. I'll call later. When do you expect him in?"

Wendy could detect an uneasy catch in her voice. "He . . . didn't leave his schedule with me. But I expect he will be checking his messages regularly. Are you sure you don't want his voice mail?"

She gave up. "Yeah. Okay. Put me on." She left an outline of the information she was seeking, and hung up.

Who else would know Montpelier?

Maybe Karl?

_Eh, maybe._ She dialed the Shop. He answered the phone.

And he seemed genuinely glad to talk to her. "Yeah, you'd mentioned last night that business was picking up. So now you have furs begging to stay six nights running? I'd call that progress."

"Yes, I suppose so. But I got a request for information from one of them, and I don't want to steer him wrong. That's why I called. How well do you know Montpelier?"

"Pretty well."

_Bingo!_ Given his penchant for understatement, she assumed that meant there might be one or two back alleys he hadn't mapped. "Great! Can you give me a restaurant that serves gourmet food and can do right by a feline and a vegetarian squirrel?"

"Interesting assortment. This is a couple, you say?"

"Right. They'll be here on the fifteenth, but are staying in Montpelier the night of the fourteenth, and he wanted to take his wife somewhere special."

"Hmm." He turned the question over in his mind briefly. "Okay. There are six or seven I can think of that might fit the bill. What kinds of food are they partial to?"

"He didn't say."

"Well, just to be on the safe side, assuming they aren't into hot food . . ."

"Karl, as far as you're concerned, _nofur_ is into hot food."

"Irrelevant. As I was saying, given the lack of specifics, I'd choose among Dino's Northern Italian, The Continental, or Ford Mill."

"Uh-huh. Well, of those, I've only eaten at The Continental. And frankly, it was topping my short list already."

"Hey, if you thought it was good, go for it then. You might suggest the mussels."

"Well, I had the filet, the one time I was there. I was in a steak mood. But the mussels looked tempting. What do they have for vegetarians?"

"An entire page of the menu devoted to herb and mushroom dishes. I can personally recommend the black-wheat crepes with spicy mushroom-and-chestnut filling."

"Oooh! How'd I miss that? I love mushrooms!"

"As much as you love Münster?"

"Weeellll. One must maintain one's priorities."

That made him laugh. "Right. I concur. So point them at The Continental and tell them to skip lunch."

"Sounds good. Thanks for the input."

"Anytime. And may I say that it's always a genuine pleasure talking with you."

The fur on her muzzle rose in a sudden, unexpected blush. ". . . . . Thanks. Bye." She hung up quickly, then sat staring at the phone for most of a minute before turning back to the computer.

##

_** Mid-September 2016 **_

The first commercials aired in very limited markets, very late at night, on some of the independent stations. They were relatively low-key, but to anyfur paying attention, the Purist cant was unmistakable. Couched in terms of 'heritage' and 'historical accuracy', the spots made no concrete claims for any one group. They were more like a general call to personal and civic pride. One might even dub them tasteful.

The state attorney-general, a Native-American black bear by the name of Michael Truefoot, was not fooled, though. Hailing, as he did, from Memphis, having grown up during the Purist tensions of the sixties and seventies, he was already sensitized to the rhetoric, and immediately assigned several agents to do a back-trace on the sponsors. He'd been working in the Columbus, Ohio, District Attorney's office several years back when these species extremists made their first big, public grandstand in that state, and thought he knew what to expect.

What he discovered was not calculated to help him sleep well the next few nights. He'd been around for this kind of thing more than once, and was determined to do what he could to prevent bloodshed. With as many of that ilk as he had currently parked in his state, it could get very ugly, very quickly. He mulled the situation over for most of a day before deciding to place a request with the Governor for a regiment of the National Guard.

##

_** Sunday 11 September 2016, 2:20pm **_

"No, Karl."

"Come on, Wendy, be realistic. Furs need sleep. You can't keep this up forever, and it's _really_ best not to get into the habit of neglecting your personal needs."

"That sounds like the voice of experience talking."

"None other."

"Maybe in a couple of weeks. Right now the restaurant is booked solid, and last Friday I had Savari Kadam ask me about supplying pastries for their shop. She's coming by later this afternoon for the first batch. If that gets to be as regular as my business with Elly, time off is out."

"Which is exactly why you should take a break now, before you have no chance at all. Otherwise 'a couple of weeks' won't ever get here. You're working the fur off your paws."

"I can't just close the Café on a whim! Start doing that and folks look elsewhere for their meals. And right now I need all the income I can get. Levi's nearly done with the roof, and he's kinda expecting some money."

"Conceded. But if you land yourself in the hospital from exhaustion, you won't be getting _anything_ done."

"It's not that . . ." here she interrupted herself with a yawn, ". . . 'scuse me. Not _that_ bad."

"Uh-huh."

"No, really!"

"Wendy, how many reservations do you have between now and Thursday?"

"Three. It was four, but the Gophers cancelled. Sick kids."

"And two of those reservations are mine. I can take a rain check. Who is the other for?"

"Mark and Janice Rounrock on Tuesday. It'll be their third visit here. They raved over the place both times before. I don't wanna let 'em down."

"Wendy, don't you think that a repeat customer who really likes the food and the ambience would understand if you were 'called out of town' suddenly?"

"Well . . . I'd rather not risk it."

"Why don't you call them and get their reaction? See if they can reschedule."

"Why is this so important to you?"

He hesitated for the briefest of moments, just enough for her to notice. "I think it should be important to _you_. You aren't taking care of yourself as you should.

"And that is your business, how?"

"Wendy . . ." His hesitation stretched out quite a bit longer this time. "I'll admit I have no claim on your time. I have no inherent 'right' to offer direction for your activities. I'm not your father, or your Dutch Uncle. But I _am_ your friend, and a good one if I may flatter myself. As such, I care about you, and about what you do for or against your own welfare. When I see a perfectly wonderful furson stretching herself to the breaking point as you've been doing, it concerns me." He paused, but she didn't say anything. "That's it I guess."

"I see." She was touched by his admission. "Tell you what. I'll call Janice and find out if they can come on Monday. Then if they can, I'll take Tuesday and Wednesday off. I guess I could use a break."

His relief clearly audible, he responded, "Wonderful! That's terrific! Will you call me back when you get their time reset?"

"_If_, Karl, _if_ I get them to reschedule. Yeah, I'll let you know." A tiny smile hovered around her lips.

"Thank you, Wendy. I know you won't regret it. Talk to you later, okay?"

"Right." She interrupted herself with another yawn. "Sorry. Later."

##

_** Monday 12 September 2016, 5:10pm **_

Debbye laid an excited paw on her husband's shoulder. "Oh, Honey, pull over here!"

"Where?"

"There! At that overlook."

"Got it." Lee whipped his BMW into the short sidetrack off the Pallisades Parkway and stopped along the rail at the top of the cliff. They both got out, and Debbye unlimbered her remote camera.

Facing east, they stood in silence for a minute as she took several photos, the afternoon sun slanting over their shoulders. The cliff fell away below them in thick vegetation, now beginning here and there to sport its fall colors, and spread out to meet the Hudson River far below. Homes and hills, roads and valleys lay on the other side, limned in gold by the clear, late light.

Debbye leaned her crossed arms on one of the rail stanchions and sighed. "Nobody ever told me New Jersey was so pretty. All I ever heard about was refineries and horrible traffic."

"That's why we came this way. I wanted to share this with you."

She stood and wrapped him in a tight hug. "Why do I love you so much?"

He returned her embrace with vigor. "That's easy. Grace. Pure and simple. You are my blessing. The truest blessing I have in this life." As there were no other furs around just then, they felt safe in expressing their love a bit more forcefully.

After a minute Debbye pulled back to catch her breath, then leaned her head on his shoulder. His stomach took that opportunity to growl loudly, and they both giggled.

"What time is it anyway?" he asked.

She glanced around his arm at her camera. "Almost twenty after. When are our reservations?"

"Seven. We have plenty of time, but I'd like to run by the hotel before dinner."

"Does that mean I have to let you go, now?"

"Hmm. Well . . . the front seat has lots of room, and the wheel tilts up quite a ways. You might be able to ride in my lap the rest of the trip."

"Oh, sure," she shot back, laughing, "until we get pulled over."

"Tell you what." He leaned over and whispered in her ear. "You can hold me really close later."

"Really, _really_ close?"

"Uh-huh."

"As in, occupying-the-same-space close?"

"Sounds good to me."

"Okay. But remember: don't keep me in suspense too long." She reached up and gave him a short lick on the cheek. "I might overheat." And she skipped over to the car.

"I certainly wouldn't want to miss that!" he replied, studying his wife's form with frank appreciation.

"Then get a move on, slowpoke." As she turned back to him, she gave a little _eeek_! He had zipped up close behind and was looming right over her.

"Way ahead of you, Hon." He opened her door for her and helped her in, sneaking in a quick kiss on her ear. "On to New York City!"

"And Providence, and Boston, and Concord, and Montpelier, and . . ."

He came around to the driver's side and got in. "And I wish we had more time for this trip."

She took his paw. "I'm not complaining. I've got you all to myself for thirteen whole days. I'm going to enjoy every minute of it."

He grinned at her. "Sweetheart, I like your style."

She kissed him again, and they got back on the road.

##

_** Wednesday 14 September 2016, 11:46am **_

Karl pointed out the window at a small restaurant. "How about that place?"

" 'Francine's Woodbury Diner'? Sure. Looks good to me. Just so I don't have to eat any more of those PowerBar things."

Karl shot his lip out in a pretend pout. "You don't like my PowerBars. Humph."

A snicker escaped. "I like 'em fine. Just not three meals a day, the way you do. How many of those things do you eat every day, anyway?"

"Quite a few. It's really a matter of getting the biggest bang for the buck, nutritionally speaking. If I eat those, and drink lots of fruit juice and some protein concentrates, I don't have to fill up on a bunch of other stuff. Also, it leaves more room for _your_ cooking." He pulled the truck into the gravel lot and parked beside several other similar vehicles.

Wendy pointed down the row. "Heh. Looks like a contractors' convention. Nothing but crew cabs and utility vans."

"Yes, I noticed that. It is rather unusual. You see the dish on that one at the end?"

"Yeah. They're all the same dark green color, too. I bet they all belong to the same company."

"Still want to stop here?"

"I'd say it's at least worth a look inside, just to check it out." So saying, she opened her door.

"Harrrumph!"

"Oops!" she returned, with a grin. "Forgot."

Karl trotted around the front of the vehicle and opened it for her, then lent her a paw to help her to ground.

"Thank you," she intoned formally, with a slight downward inclination of her head.

"My pleasure, my lady."

"Yeah, so I understand. Maybe someday I'll figure out why." She laid a paw on his proffered arm and they promenaded to the entrance.

"Combination of things. Making up for lost time. Fundamental proper valuation of another's worth. That sort of thing." He showed his teeth a little. "It obviously _doesn't_ have anything to do with efficiency."

"Right. I'd think that would bug you, maybe, just a little."

"Not really, no." He opened the big glass door and ushered her in.

A short, plump rodent of indeterminate parentage bustled up to them immediately. "Two for lunch?"

They scanned the place. Every one of the six large tables had at least two furs occupying it. Karl looked down at his companion. "Whatcha think?"

"I didn't really want to do 'family-style' for lunch. I guess we can wait. Besides, we seem to be drawing some stares." Truly, in the fifteen seconds or so since the door had closed behind them, the room had gone quiet and most of the diners were, indeed, looking their way.

"Suits me. I can wait." He thanked the mouse, but told her they would not be staying. They went back outside and headed down the row to their truck.

"Miss! Excuse me, Miss!"

They both looked around to see a wiry lemur trotting after them. Wendy frowned and brought up a tentative paw to point at him. "I know you. . . ."

"Yes, Ma'am. Mark Forrester. I'm with _**Vermont**_ magazine."

"Right!" She snapped her fingers. "I met you in Montpelier."

"Yes, and I want to thank you for the poses you did for us. They'll be on the website this month. One on the homepage."

"Uh-huh. Well. Congrats."

"I hope your meeting went well."

"Beg pardon?"

"You were trying to get to a meeting when we met. In something of a hurry, you were."

"Yes. Yes, I was. And, thank you, it did."

"I'm glad. Umm . . . anyway, you _were_ in such a hurry I never got one of your cards, and . . . well, we don't have your, um, your name to go with the photos, and I thought it'd be, you know, kinda nice to be able to put a name on the face and all, and, well . . ."

Wendy stuck her paw out. "Wendy Wylde."

Mark took it. "Wylde. Wendy Wylde." He rolled her name around for a few seconds, and nodded. "That with an 'i'?"

"W-Y-L-D-E"

"Wendy Wylde. Got it. That's nice. It fits you." He then extended his paw to Karl. "And you would be Mister Wylde?"

Karl took the paw and shook it twice. "No, sir, I fear I have not that privilege." The vixen gave him a penetrating, sidelong look when he said that. "My name's Karl, and I'm a friend of Wendy's."

"Well, it's nice to meet you." He nodded to Wendy. "And to finally learn your name." He fished a couple of his cards out of a shirt pocket and passed them to the other furs. "We're up here doing a shoot of the old bridges in the area. Got some nice footage so far."

Wendy gave a short, barking laugh, and Mark raised his eyebrows.

"Footage. It's funny how terms stick around in certain fields of endeavor. We're all supposed to be converted over to metric, and yet you still talk about 'footage'. Heck, you don't even use physical film anymore, do you?"

"Heh. I should say not. Nanopixel systems beat old-timey reel film all to pieces."

Karl looked at the card he'd been given. "So, was there something special you needed, besides Wendy's name?"

The lemur's eye brightened noticeably. "Well . . . . . . ." He chewed on his lip briefly and gave them a hopeful look. "See, Miss Wylde here is a natural. I mean, you really ought to check out the website when you get a chance. The camera loves her, no lie. And we were supposed to have a couple of models to take with us today, you know, somebody to stand around on the bridge and give it that furry touch, only they never showed. Didn't call in or anything." He paused again.

Karl deduced his meaning. "So you'd like for Wendy to fill in for them?"

She looked askance at him. "Are you kidding? With my headfur a mess from the wind? And dressed in this floppy flannel thing? Don't be ridiculous!"

"But, Miss Wylde, please, that's just it. You fit the feel of the layout perfectly. Just someone taking a relaxing stroll along the old covered bridge, no worries, no cares, no agenda, no schedule."

"Sounds good to me, Wendy." Karl was all grins.

Her flicking whiskers broadcasting her annoyance, she said, "Forget it. I'm here to relax, yes, but not on-camera." She took Mark's paw and shook it. "Good day, sir."

Karl shrugged, gave the deflated lemur a '_What can you do?_' look, and followed Wendy to the truck.

Mark thought furiously for a couple of seconds, pulled one of several small objects out of his pocket and palmed it, then went over to Wendy's side of the truck. She rolled her window down, and he asked, "Would a couple of those vouchers change your mind? Hundred bucks total."

"I'm afraid not. But thanks, anyway."

He leaned up against the side of the truck and pulled a pen out of his shirt, saying, "In case you change your mind, let me jot down where I can be . . ." but he fumbled the pen and dropped it on the ground. "Shoot. Sorry. Hang on." He knelt beside the truck, slipped the object from his paw onto the underside of the truck, where it hung on magnetically, picked up his pen, and stood. "Excuse my fumblefingers. This is where I can be reached today." He scribbled a number on the back of another card and gave it to her.

"I won't be changing my mind. But thanks anyway." She rolled the window up, and they drove off.

Mark watched the truck until they were out of sight, then padded over to his van. He hopped into the back, pulled down a monitor, and flipped several switches. "Let's see, how does Steve do this? Map overlay. Locale? Right. Tracking, check. Eesh! Which one was it?" He looked at the remaining three disks in his pocket, then entered a number into the machine. "Okay, what's he got here? Historical trend, timeline, archive . . . okay, this must be it. Live feed." He tapped in the codes, and the screen shuddered to life. A computer-generated aerial map came into focus. He squinted at the other options running down the side of the device, and chose two. A green cross popped up in the center of the map, and a smaller red circle moved slowly away from it along one of the wavy, gray lines that represented a road, a small, rectangular box containing the highway number sitting astraddle it. Mark grinned to himself. "Gotcha."

##


	5. Chapter 2 Interlopers Part C

_**Chapter 2 – Interlopers – Part C**_

##

_** Wednesday 14 September 2016, 3:17pm **_

"What do you think of this?" Karl held out a large spray of brilliant gold and red leaves.

"Perfect! Thanks." She took them and twined them into her braid. She had decided shortly after leaving the little diner in Woodbury that her headfur needed to be put up. When she finished with the leaves, they made a glorious train down her back.

Karl applauded quietly, then motioned for her to spin for him, which she did. "Marvelous. You really are quite stunning."

"Oh, 'stunning' is it? I thought 'dowdy' would be better. Where did that come from?" she teased.

He said nothing for several seconds, long enough to catch her attention, then with a carefully unreadable expression, he replied, "From the heart." He held out his paw. "Shall we go?"

"Uhh . . . sure." She put her paw in his, and walked beside him, her tail swishing in agitation.

_What is he trying to do to me? One minute he's all standoffish and proper, the next he comes out with something like that. Is he trying to encourage me? Tease me? I just don't understand him._

So ran her thoughts for a few minutes as they made their silent way down the narrow, rural lane.

The day was absolutely fine. A fresh, occasionally chilly breeze came steadily into their faces from the east, bringing with it a slight tang of storm. The sky, though not cloudy overhead, was darker in that direction, an even, bluish, slate-gray. The low hills in this area were clad in a pleasing mixture of conifers and hardwoods, the latter proud in their fall finery, and made a breathtaking contrast with the lowering sky. Wendy realized what she was seeing and stopped to soak it all in.

"Something wrong?"

"No. Absolutely not, not at all. Everything is so right I feel like doing a cartwheel. Look at that." She pointed to where the road meandered toward a small stream. An ancient covered bridge spanned the short jump, and on either side stood a sparse grove of black walnut, their bright yellow leaves dancing in the wind, and taking flight by twos and threes. A light, steady fall of gold fluttered to the ground in front of them.

. . .

Steve tapped his partner on the shoulder. "Mark, would you please, please, please, please, _please_ tell me what this is all about? What's the huge secret?"

"Shush. We're almost there." Mark eased their van up onto the shoulder, just in sight of the big truck, then sent the infrared dish up to do a scan of the area. "They can't have gone far."

"They, **_who?_**_"_

"Just this, Stevie-boy. You remember that drop-dead gorgeous vixen we filmed in Montpelier early in the summer?"

"Oh, _hell_, yeah! Who could forget her? I've seen nearly a dozen scenes since then she woulda been perfect for."

"Well while you were off watering the porcelain, she poked her head into the diner."

The big otter stiffened. "What? Today?"

"Ayah."

"Damn! I missed her?"

"Yeah, but not for long. I put one of our ID mags on their truck." He had his eyes on the IR readouts. "This is the truck. That has to be them. Oh, yes! Yes! This is too perfect! They're headed right for one of the bridges on our list. Hot diggity damn!"

"What? Where? Which?" Steve tried to get a look at what Mark was seeing.

"Hand me that long-range job off the back bench, and fire up the remote. We got pictures to take!"

. . .

The two furs walked slowly toward the bridge. Karl could smell the negative ions, and knew the storm wouldn't tarry much longer. "Wendy, I think we should head back to the truck. Unless you don't care about getting wet."

"Just a minute. I'm having an epiphany, or a déjà vu, or something."

She continued toward the grove, Karl a couple of steps to the rear.

. . .

"Damn! That is one more hot fox!" Steve was generous with his approval.

"Just keep quiet and concentrate on that feed telemetry. And try not to crash the robot into a tree." Mark had his eye glued to the machine. _This is too perfect for words._

. . .

The sky above the hill darkened considerably over the next minute. Karl spotted the wind front as it came over the top.

"Yesssss."

He glanced over to look at Wendy when he heard her whisper. Her head was tilted back, her eyes closed. She took a few skipping steps forward, almost at the foot of the grove, and flung her arms out wide as the wind struck the trees, and then she joined the gods of autumn in their dance.

Almost as one, the remaining leaves sprang from their moorings and coupled with the wild wind as it twisted through the branches, gathering strength, momentum, and mass. The leaves whirled in mad spirals, eddies and currents leaping to outdo one another in their gyrations, coming nearly to ground, then whisking back to the treetops, a welter of bright gold so thick they nearly hid the bridge from view entirely. And Wendy, in the center of the maelstrom, pirouetted and bobbed, hopped and spun and soared in the sheer joy of being alive and being awake and being there.

Karl watched, mouth agape, at the spectacle.

. . .

"_**YES! YES! YES! YES! YES!**_" Mark jumped up and banged his head on the roof of the van, but it did nothing to dampen his spirits.

"Geez! Tone it down, son. You sound like a cheap porn flick."

"Take a look at that! Just take a look, and tell me if you've seen anything to top it. And I mean EVER."

Steve studied the replay. "Ho-leeee . . ."

"Uh-huh! Right! Did I say it? Who's the bomb?" He hopped out the side door and did a short piece of a jig.

Steve looked up in wonder. "And she didn't know we were here?"

"No! She turned me down flat! But nobody would ever believe this wasn't at least timed, if not staged. Hell, the boss'll probably think we just programmed the whole thing."

"He'll know better. It's a live-feed."

"Yeah. Man, oh, man, I can't wait to show him this! He'll give us a week off in New York, for sure."

"You just might be right, my friend." And so saying, the burly tech recalled the remote drone.

. . .

Most of the leaves had come to ground, and Karl could hear the first telltales of the rain. He looked at Wendy: she was still oblivious, turning slow circles in the wind. He bounded over, scooped her up in one arm, and trotted back toward the truck.

"_**Aaiii!** Karl!_ What do you think you're doing?" She threw an arm around his neck to steady herself.

"Keeping you dry, for one."

Wendy looked back toward the bridge, then up the hill. Her eyes widened when she saw the wall of water headed their way. "Umm, a little faster would be good. _Yipe_!"

Faster, she got. A lot faster. And they made it to the truck ahead of the first drops. Karl pitched her in, hopped over the hood and jumped in himself. A few seconds later, the deluge began.

They looked through the windshield at the driving torrent, then at each other, and both started giggling. It built up slowly into a full gale of laughter, a release of emotional stress on a basic level that continued for some time. Eventually, Karl was able to get the truck started, and headed them back toward Montpelier. And when they passed it, they took no notice of the dark green van parked off the side of the road half-a-klick from where they had stopped.

##

_** 9:08pm **_

An older raccoon couple arrived at the door of _The Continental_ just as it was opening. The sturdy feline that had his paw on the door handle spotted them at once, stepped back, and gave them a warm smile accompanied by a small bow.

The senior raccoon held his lady's paw as they went inside, and thanked the cat.

"It's no trouble, sir. Have a pleasant dinner." Then he and his companion, a lovely squirrel femme, made their exit. As the door was closing, they could hear the lady remark to her husband, "Such a nice young lad." To which he answered, "Yes, gives me hope for that generation."

Debbye snickered as she gave Lee a sidelong glance. "Well, 'young lad', looks like you made a good impression."

Returning her grin as he appropriated her arm, he answered, "It's not the impression one leaves, but the intrinsic nobility of spirit that is important."

That brought him one of her clear laughs that he so much enjoyed hearing. She leaned her head up against his shoulder as they ambled down the walk, and commented, "Well, you _are_ my very favorite noble. M'lord."

He put his arm around her waist, giving a little squeeze, and whispered, "M'lady."

The parking lot occupied a long, narrow tract between the restaurant and the big bookshop at the end of the block. It had spaces down both sides and two facing banks in the center, with a U-shaped drive-around to facilitate access. The place had been quite full when they arrived around seven, so they'd had to park at the rear of the lot. It had two utility lights, but only the one at the front seemed to be working: as they turned at the corner of the building, they could see that the back half of the lot lay in variegated shadow. They could also hear raucous, grating electronic percussion coming from one of the vehicles between them and their car.

It was a pickup, standing foursquare in the traffic lane, one of those older, extended-cab models so popular back in the nineties, and it had two large speakers mounted in the bed. The Evanses could see three furs lounging on folding chairs directly in front of the speakers, and another in the cab, his feet hanging out the window, keeping time with the raging beat.

Lee and Debbye hurried past, she covering her ears, he grimacing at both the cacophonous volume and the utter lack of discernable melody coming from the truck. He noticed the sullen stares they received, and returned a disapproving glare of his own as he fished into his pocket for the heavy fob attached to the keys to his BMW.

One of the furs in the truck bed looked over at his nearest companion, raised an eyebrow and nodded in the couple's direction. He received a feral grin and a nod. That fur then leaned around the cab and tapped one of the feet hanging out the window.

Lee and Debbye had almost reached their car when they heard, "Hey, you!" called out. They stopped and turned to face the fur.

"Samatta, bitch, you don' like our music?" The speaker was a ferret, tall and big-boned. The other three furs, a wolf, a panther, and a weasel, were right behind him, and grinning at each other.

Lee's hackles rose, his ears flattened, and a low growl began deep in his chest. "What did you call my wife?"

"Ah wuddn' talkin' ta you."

"Well I'm talking to you." Lee took a step forward. Debbye flanked him, unblinking. Less than three meters separated them from the interlopers.

The wolf muttered to the weasel, "Wife? They're _married_? Ain't that some shit!"

"Hey, Bo, mebbe we can fix that," replied his companion with a smirk.

The other fur, the panther, said, "Hey, Billy, thinks he's gonna scare ya. How 'bout it, Billy, you scared?"

"Oh, yeah. Ready to piss my pants, Roy." He took a couple of steps forward and reached out a paw to grab Lee's shirt.

The compact cat made one short, inconceivably fast motion, and the overbearing ferret jerked backward then collapsed to the pavement in a limp heap.

Lee's eyes almost glowed with the protective indignation he felt. "Do I get an apology from the rest of you now, or should I apply a bit more persuasion first?"

The remaining furs' jaws dropped open in sync for a second, then Roy and the wolf pulled pistols. Roy snarled, "Jest bought yerself a ticket t' hell, you son of a bitch!"

The weasel, who stood farthest to the right, almost in front of Lee, nudged Bo. "Hey, kin we have some fun with 'em, first?"

Lee and Debbye shot a quick glance at each other. She gave him two rapid flutters of her left eye and a twitch of her right cheek: _I'll take the armed panther on the left._ He flashed her three blinks, a whisker twitch, and a frown: _Acknowledged._ _I've got the other two. I'll signal to start. _The entire conversation took less than two seconds.

Lee pushed on the back of his key fob with his forefinger, popping a heavy, eight-point shurriken out of it and into his palm. Then he dropped the keys.

The jingling sound they made when they hit the pavement launched the two furs into blurred motion. Lee leaped upward and to the right simultaneously with Debbye's drop-feint forward. The combined movements in different, skewing directions disoriented their attackers only very briefly. But it was easily long enough.

Lee released the needle-studded disk, spinning it at high velocity into the back of, and through, the wolf's paw, and knocking the gun away.

Debbie let fly her clutch purse at the other weapon, the force of the strike spinning that fur halfway around and jamming his thumb badly. He didn't quite lose his grip on the pistol.

Much good it did him.

Almost too fast to follow, she came in low and straightened out, her entire mass concentrated in a wicked kick to the outside of his left knee. The joint, essentially, exploded; blood sprinkled the asphalt for two meters behind the unfortunate feline. He screamed and tried to curl into a ball, but his leg wouldn't cooperate. Debbye landed a hammer-blow to his left tempero-mandibular joint, dislocating his jaw, and he flopped over and lay still.

Lee, meanwhile, had ricocheted off the nearest car, and into the weasel, burying a foot to the ankle in the fur's midriff, just below the solar plexus, then spinning away toward the wolf as his target collapsed in agony, breathless, behind him.

The wolf, holding his paw close to his body, had turned and started after the gun, but received the point of Lee's elbow to his ribs instead. He doubled over in misery as the broken ends grated together, jittering away in Debbye's direction on wobbly legs, and she administered the coup-de-grace with a side kick to the kidney that sprawled him on the ground, gasping and barely conscious.

The couple crouched at the ready and scanned the parking lot for more foes. Finding none, after a few seconds they relaxed into more natural stances. Lee took two steps and picked up Debbye's purse. Passing it to her, he said, "Sorry, my dear. Looks like you need a new one now."

She examined the battered thing, noting the large rip in the end where it had struck the gun barrel. "That's okay. It wasn't one of my favorites." Her nose wrinkled. She didn't need to open it to know that her perfume bottle had broken and spilled its contents on the rest of the items in the purse. She looked up at her husband. "How'd we do, time-wise?"

"I make it about six or seven seconds for the main fight, maybe fifteen if you count from when I took out the first one."

That brought a bright smile to Debbye's face. "Not too bad! Practice makes perfect, huh?"

"Absolutely." Lee scanned the ground and spotted his shurriken, which he retrieved. Then he used his kerchief to pick up the two guns, and laid them on the trunk of their car. "Hey, Hon? You okay to keep an eye on these guys while I go get restaurant security?"

"Sure thing, Easy. Hurry back." She propped herself against the rear of their vehicle, watching her cat as he picked up his keys and jogged back to the front of the building. _He still looks just as good from this view as when we met seventeen years ago__**,**_she thought to herself, grinning. He paused at the truck to reach in and turn off the noise.

Debbye turned when she heard a scraping sound. The weasel sucked a ragged breath, rolled over and whimpered, then got his arms under himself to try to push up off the ground. Debbye stepped over and pressed a foot against the back of his neck. "Stay down and you stay conscious. Move, and I can't guarantee your safety." He whimpered again and went totally limp.

Neither fur's pulse nor respiration had deviated more than ten percent off resting norm at any time during the fight. But then, as Lee said, practice makes perfect. And they had been practicing these moves together for over a decade and a half.

##

_** 11:42pm **_

Karl's truck rolled to a stop in front of Ash Creek Inn's main door. He glanced over at the sleeping vixen in the passenger seat, regarding her flawless profile for a moment. _She's absolutely breathtaking. And not just in the looks department._ He tapped her lightly on the shoulder. "Here ya go, kid."

"Hm?" Wendy's eyes fluttered open. She turned to look up at the big wolverine, silhouetted against the starlight, then pulled herself into a lengthy stretch, tacking on a wide yawn at the end. "We back already?"

"Ayah." He hopped out and came around to open her door. She gave him her paw and stepped down, and they walked up to her door.

"Karl?"

"Yes?"

"You were right. I really _didn't_ know how much I needed this trip." She leaned over and gave him a hug. "Thanks."

He returned the hug, carefully, but joyfully. "You're welcome. I had a good time, too."

Wendy yawned into the fur of his chest, bringing a deep chuckle from him. "Looks like you should probably get to bed, young lady."

"It sounds so funny when you call me that. Sounds like my father."

"I think the term is quite apt." He released her and turned to go. "Good night, Wendy."

"'Night." She watched him as he climbed back into his truck, hit the power, and headed down her drive, and several related thoughts ran through her fatigue-numbed mind. _I did have a great time the last couple of days, too. This is so different from my last several relationships. If you can even call this a relationship in the usual sense of the word. I know he likes me, is attracted to me. He thinks I'm 'stunning'. Said so himself. But he hasn't pressured me about anything. Heck, he hasn't even offered to kiss my paw. First real gentlefur I've been close to in a long, long time. _She smiled a sleepy little smile to herself and sighed in something very like satisfaction. Turning to the door, she fumbled around in her pocket for the keys.

_{ { i greet you, daughter } }_

Wendy yelped and dropped her keys, whipping around and backing against the door, wildly scanning the area in front of the house. She saw nothing. All thoughts of sleep evaporated.

"Who . . . . . who's there?"

_{ { you must know the truth } }_ The message was plain enough, if a bit cryptic.

"Know what? What do I need to know?" She heard the rustle of fur on grass to her right and watched the area closely. Presently, the royal feral fox stepped into view.

He sat on his haunches and stared at her._ { { they have come again } }_

_They?_ "They who? Who's come?"

_{ { they-who-hate } } _There was a strong feeling of distaste in his thoughts.

"What do you mean? Who are you talking about? Are there hunters in the woods?"

_{ { hunters do not hate } }_ The flat, unequivocal tone of the statement pressed down on her.

"Well, then, who is it? Who hates? And whom do they hate?" She got the definite feeling that he was trying to tell her something important.

_{ { they hate others – others like you, but not-fox } }_

Wendy pondered that briefly. "Are they, whoever they are, coming here?"

_{ { i do not know – they are near – they bring the long sleep } }_

Her hackles prickled badly at that. "Is someone coming after me?"

_{ { no – after others } }_

She sighed in frustration. "This is going nowhere! What are you trying to say?"

He simply stared, unblinking. It was as if he was trying to come up with a concept she would understand. She waited. And at length, he did.

_{ { they hunt – not us – others like them – but not like them – not like you – others that are not-fox, not-squirrel, not-lynx, not-skunk, not-raccoon – others that have no clear line – others that are not-one } }_

It was the longest thought-stream she'd heard from him yet. And it worked. She got it. "You mean hybrid furs? Furs with parents from two different species?"

He nodded once, slowly. _{ { hybrids – yes – they-who-hate hunt the hybrids } } _There was that feeling of revulsion again.

_Who hunts hybrids?_ She was more confused now than before. "Why are you telling me this?"

_{ { you needed to know } }_

"But why me?"

_{ { because others don't listen } }_

He got up and trotted off into the shadows before she could collect her thoughts enough to ask her next question. _Somebody is here hunting hybrids?_ "But who would ..."

Her hackles had not yet fully settled down, and jumped erect again.

"Purebreds!" She practically spat the word.

That had to be it. Maybe some of the same ones that had waylaid Sam and Martin. She recalled another experience with those jerks from several years back. Two couples she knew from work had been attacked, and one of their houses firebombed, although the damage had been minimal. The police had even caught the perpetrators, and traced them back to some group from Indiana.

"Damn! I'd better let Cinnamon know. She'll have to keep a close eye on Emily." So saying, she retrieved her keys from the porch, let herself in, and nearly ran back to her office where she had left her PA.

**End of Chapter Two**

**. . .**

**. . .**

***Author's End Notes: Kindly leave a review. I don't feel it is too much to ask that, once in a while, the Reader take a minute to let the Author know what he or she thinks. If you're taking the time and trouble to read the story, and the Author took the time and trouble to write it, a bit of communication would seem to be called for, don't you think?***


	6. Chapter 3 A Slight Detour Part A

_**Chapter Three – A Slight Detour – Part A**_

**Breathless, we flung us on a windy hill;  
****Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.**

_**- Rupert Brooke**_

**##**

_** Thursday 15 September 2016, 1:30pm ** _

"I love this porch."

Wendy opened her eyes and looked over at Ellen in the other glider. "Hmm?"

"This porch. This great big, wide, wonderful porch. I love it." She pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms around them, resting her toe pads on the front edge of the seat.

Wendy yawned, and said, "Yeah. Me too." Her chair's movement was barely perceptible. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the rest. What little sleep she managed to get the night before had been troubled by dreams of violence and talking animals, and she had awakened, time and again, wringing wet. Twice she had gotten up to take a walk to try to calm her mind: once up and down the main staircases for several laps, and once around the outside of the house and all the way down the drive to the road. It hadn't helped much.

The white mink looked up at the newly-painted tongue-in-groove ceiling and said, "We hardly had even a stoop back when. Mom and Dad stuck a little screened-in patio thing on the back of the house when I was in high school, but it was always so cluttered up there was no room to sit." She glanced at Wendy, noting her closed eyes, and the laced fingers in her lap. "You feeling okay today Boss?"

". . . . . . . . . Hmm?"

Ellen chuckled. "Musta had a bad night."

Wendy drew a deep sigh and slowly stretched, nodding at the same time.

Ellen thought of something else she wanted to know. "When did you say that carpenter guy is gonna be here?"

Wendy had to think about it for a few seconds. "Tuesday."

"And he'll be working in the rear suite on the north side?"

". . . Mm-hmm." She yawned again.

Ellen clucked her tongue a couple of times and observed, "You really ought to get to bed earlier."

"Don't think that would've helped." Wendy caught her eye and asked, "Would you . . . would you mind if I posed a hypothetical question?"

"Sure," she replied with a shrug.

"If you . . ." Wendy searched for the right phrasing. "Well, if you found out about something . . . if you found out that something was going to happen and it was a bad thing and you needed to tell somebody, but you were pretty sure nobody would believe you, what would you do?"

Ellen blinked at her a couple of times. "What did you find out?"

"I said this was a hypothetical question."

"Right. What 'bad thing' did you find out about?"

Wendy frowned, curled her paw into a fist and tapped it lightly against her nose for several seconds. "You ever run across any Purebreds?"

"Purebreds? What, like furs whose parents were always the same species?"

"No, no. I mean those groups, like the Purification Church, or the Knights of the Pure Strain. You know, species purists."

The light dawned. "Oh! Bigots."

Wendy grinned. "Yes, that's one name for 'em."

Ellen nodded and stretched her legs back out. "Once or twice, but only indirectly. One of my professors at MIT was a hybrid. His mother was a lop-eared rabbit and his father was a brown bear, and he was pretty odd-looking. There was some kind of on-campus organization, I'm not sure what exactly, that was forever railing against mixing the species. Don't think they had any official status. Anyway, there were several students who belonged to it who refused to take his class. Made a big stink because of his parentage. The School of Aerospace came down on the prof's side, and most of those students transferred rather than have him as a teacher. I thought at the time it was a pretty stupid thing for 'em to do."

"I'd have to agree with you there." Wendy repositioned herself to face the mink more directly, and started idly pushing herself back and forth with one foot, the other leg curled up under her. "So I guess you don't have any strong feelings about species purity?"

She snorted half a laugh. "Please! Would Cinnamon be one of my best friends if I did? Would I be dating a puma? Come on."

"Well, that's good to know. My ex is a wolf. Eh . . . 'is' – 'was' – I'm not even sure if he's alive."

"Really?"

"Yeah. He disappeared after they let him out of prison. Dropped off the face of the planet about, oh, four-and-a-half years ago. And good riddance."

"_**Prison?**_ Not an amicable divorce, then?"

"He was . . . _very_ abusive."

"Ah."

Wendy didn't respond right away, so Ellen prompted her, "And you say he's a wolf?"

"Yeah. I know there's not all that much difference between wolves and foxes, but obviously it matters to some furs."

"I guess so. So what does that have to do with this big 'bad' thing?" Ellen made little quotation marks in the air.

"Did you see that blurb on the news the other day about the serial killings in Oklahoma and Arkansas?"

Ellen pursed her lips and stared off at the yard. ". . . Yyyyyeah. Eight so far?"

"That's the one. All the victims have been hybrids. Pretty obviously hybrids."

"Okay, yeah, I remember that. And that means what to us?"

"The Purebreds are here in Vermont, hunting hybrids."

"_Holy crap!_ How do you know that?"

"You see! That's what I mean! I can't tell you because you wouldn't believe me."

"So try me."

Wendy stared at her employee for a while, considering how to go about it. "Okay. It's like this." Deep breath. "I heard it from . . . from a local source."

"What? Somebody in town?"

She sighed. "No."

"Who, then?"

"From a fox. There's a fox out in the woods that can talk to me."

Now it was Ellen's turn to stare. "A fox?"

"A fox."

"You mean a fox like you? Somebody's living out in the woods around here?"

"No. It's an animal. A feral."

Ellen pulled back just the slightest bit and put one arm up on the back of her glider. "An animal? A _wild_ fox? Runs on four legs?"

Wendy sighed. "I was right. You don't believe me."

Ellen hesitated briefly before saying, "I didn't say I didn't believe you. I'm still trying to figure out what you mean." She cocked her head and contemplated the vixen. "You're an awfully level-headed lady most of the time, and I don't think you're given to flights of pure fancy very often."

"Correct."

"So . . . how does the – the fox talk to you?"

"Some sort of telepathy, best I can tell."

Ellen tried unsuccessfully to stop the snort that escaped her muzzle.

Wendy straightened back around in the glider, leaned her head against the rest, and closed her eyes. "I'm sorry I brought it up. I won't mention it again."

"Aw, come on, Wendy, don't be like that. You'd do the same thing if I told you something so outlandish. Now wouldn't you?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Wendy! Please!" She sat forward, giving the vixen a penetrating gaze. "There's no need to get into a high dudgeon. I can take a joke."

"Ellen, I have a very keenly developed sense of humor. If this were a joke, I'd be laughing."

"But . . . but ferals don't . . ."

"What?" She turned her head and looked at Ellen. "Ferals don't what? Talk? You think I don't know that?"

"Okay." She was taken aback by the obvious stress in Wendy's face and voice. "So then what's the story?"

"The story, my good mink, is that back in July, as I was sitting on the rear porch about two hours before dusk, a red fox just showed up. He walked toward me and sat down maybe ten feet away."

"Three meters, you mean."

"Whatever. Then he . . . he spoke into my head. It startled me badly."

"Crud! I'd think so!" She was giving Wendy a steadier gaze now. "What'd he say?"

"That he was glad there was another fox living here. 'One of the clan' as he put it. And he told me that not just anyfur could communicate that way, nor many ferals. Said I had a gift of some sort. Then he winked at me and walked into the woods."

"Hm." The stare continued. "And you hadn't been using any, ah, recreational pharmaceuticals?"

"I'm not into that, and you know it."

Ellen sat still, digesting the information, for a couple of minutes. "Well. Obviously _you_ are convinced it was no hallucination."

"That was the first thought in my mind. But he left tracks, and his scent. So, to answer your question, no, it wasn't a hallucination."

"Uh-_huh_." She got up and walked to the edge of the porch, just into the sunlight. Maybe half a minute passed, then she looked over her shoulder and asked, "And that was in July?"

Wendy nodded.

"So . . . does he show up often?"

"He hadn't until last night. I'd nearly managed to forget about him, and then right after Karl dropped me off and left, there he was again. Scared the living daylights out of me."

"And he was no dream?"

"No. He told me that 'they-who-hate' were back. The way he thought about it, the weight of connotations that lay on that term, left a bad taste in my mouth. I could tell there was no love lost between him and them. It took more than a little digging to get his meaning out of him. Anyhow, he said that 'they-who-hate' were here to kill hybrids. I couldn't figure any other group that would be doing that, and I got the definite impression that it was a group he meant. A large group."

Ellen's face melted into a _very_ thoughtful frown. "Wendy . . ."

"What?"

". . . . . Do you watch late-night television?"

"You kidding? I hardly watch TV at all, much less that drivel."

"Well I sometimes like to catch reruns of 'Mystery Science Theater 3000' at midnight. And something you just said. . . . A couple of days ago I saw a commercial that made me kinda uneasy, and I couldn't figure why at the time. But . . . if there _are_ purists here, and they _are_ trying something. . . . Yeah. That makes a sort of twisted sense."

"What does?"

"You think they might be here to try for some new members? Maybe set up a local chapter?"

"Yuck! Who'd join 'em?"

"You'd be surprised. I can think of a few without straining my brain at all.

"Bleah." Her muzzle twisted in distaste, but then she got a small grin on her face. "So then, you _do_ believe me?"

Ellen gave her a noncommittal look. "For the time being. But if I find out you've been yanking my chain, it will get _very_ unpleasant."

"I swear by all you hold dear that it's the gospel truth." She raised her left paw and placed her right one over her heart.

"By all _**I**_ hold dear?"

"Yeah. I don't hold anything dear enough to swear on."

Ellen blew her a raspberry. She flopped back down into the glider, setting it swinging wildly for a moment. "So. Who do you tell?"

"Right. You see my difficulty. The only one I can think of is Quinn."

"Quinn? What's he got to do with it?"

"He knows about the first time."

"Izzat so? How'd he find out?"

Wendy gave a small snort. "How d'you think? I told him. Turns out he had a similar experience when he was young. Also, he knew some other furs it had happened to. Not many, just a couple."

Ellen's eyebrows climbed. "No shit?"

"No shit."

"How come I've never heard about this before?"

"You tryin' to tell me you've never, _ever_ heard someone mention a talking feral?"

"Well . . . just in, y'know, tabloids and stuff."

Wendy gave her a wry look and a few small nods. "And what rational fur puts any credence in those, eh?"

"Hmh. Guess that's why he never said anything. 'Course, who could blame him?"

"Right."

"Well . . . did the – the fox – give you any other info?"

"No. I think it strained his capacity to tell me what he did."

"Have you done any checking on what they might be up to? Like on the web, to see if those groups have mentioned anything about coming to Vermont?"

"No. I haven't had the time. Maybe after the Evanses get settled in."

Ellen perked up an ear and smiled. "Speak of the devil." A long, low BMW, dark metallic blue, had just cleared the tree line, and was slowing to turn into the drive.

"Nice ride. What's this guy do?"

"Beats me. His e-mail address was from some big aerospace outfit. Maybe he's a scientist."

"Old guy?"

"I doubt it. His wife would be in her mid-thirties, I think. They've been married for fourteen years, and this trip is connected with some incident that occurred while they were dating. Of course, _her_ age is not a perfectly reliable indicator for _his_. He could be seventy for all I know. But frankly he didn't sound 'old' over the phone."

Both femmes stood and watched as the powerful sport sedan came around the curve of the drive and rolled to a stop in front of the house. The driver's door opened and a lean, muscular Maine Coon Cat got out.

"No," said Ellen under her breath, "_definitely_ not an old guy."

He trotted around to the passenger door, opened it, and lent his paw to a slim squirrel with grayish-brown fur and a bouncy bob of light auburn. She emerged slowly, staring up at the enormous structure, her mouth open. Her voice came to them clearly as she said, "Honey! This is the most . . . I mean . . . it's just . . . ." She turned to him, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him soundly, which gesture he returned with obvious delight.

"Married and lovin' it, it would seem," observed the vixen _sotto voce_.

The Evanses came up the stairs arm in arm, and Wendy extended her paw. "Good afternoon. You would be Lee and Debbye Evans? I believe I recognize you, ma'am."

"That's us," said Debbye brightly. "I _love_ this place!" She shook Wendy's paw, as did her husband a few seconds later. "Ms. Wylde, I know my memory is far from perfect, but you don't look like you've changed a bit in the last fourteen years."

"One might say the same for you. You must work out religiously."

"Thanks. That we do." She peered around the vixen at the ornate front door. "What's the house like inside?"

Wendy smiled broadly and opened the huge door for them. "Let me give you the dollar tour."

##

_** 7:30pm ** _

"More shortcake, anyone?"

A chorus of thoroughly satiated groans answered Wendy's inquiry. Lee pushed back from the table and remarked, "I had a colleague who was fond of the works of Joel Chandler Harris, and would frequently quote him. One of his favorite sayings was 'I'm done been stuff-ted more samer dan a turkey'. And that's just how I feel." He made a sort of puffy face, eyes bulged and crossed, then grinned as the rest of them laughed.

Wendy recovered and asked, "What kind of saying is _that?_ I don't think I've _ever_ heard English abused quite so thoroughly before."

"I think it was a south Georgia dialect of the late nineteenth century, widely used among the hybrids on the big plantations."

"Ah-huh." Wendy arose and stretched. "Hoosh! Full." She motioned to Ellen and the two of them began collecting the supper dishes. "Hey, listen. If you guys would like to take a turn in the gliders on the rear porch, I can offer hot chocolate or Costa Rican dark roast to knock the edge off the chill."

Both guests opted for the coffee. Twenty minutes later the four of them were chatting comfortably over mugs of the hot, aromatic beverage while taking in the early evening sounds of the forest.

##

_** 10:20pm ** _

Lee came back into the Retiring Room and shrugged resignedly. "I'm sorry, Sweetheart. No brushes."

Debbye backed out of the armoire and plopped down on the bed in frustration. "I _know_ I put my brushes in the toiletries case. I just _know_ it!"

Given the choice of the two rooms Wendy had available, Lee had opted for the Victorian Suite. Finished out in the plush styling and accents of that period, the walls and rugs (and some of the furniture) incorporated several shades of green. The overstuffed chairs, the curtains, the rice-carved bed, the highboy, the bath fixtures, all evoked a sense of that decorous, long-past era. Debbye had fallen in love with it at first sight. But that did little to soothe her in this situation.

Lee came over and stood beside her, laying a comforting paw on her shoulder. "We'll get you a new set tomorrow. I'm sure Ms. Wylde will know where we can get some."

Lee was blessed with more regard for his wife's feelings in that area than were most males. The average guy, if he did anything to his face at all, just ran a comb through it and went about his business. And frankly, most males usually look a little shabby in that department. It's a good thing our femmes can see past the cover of the book.

But a girl's brush set is a personal thing. Very personal. More so to some than their toothbrushes. Even close female friends hardly ever lent facial brushes. So Debbye's loss was a real one, and would have to be rectified quickly.

"And meanwhile I get to look an absolute fright."

Lee softly stroked the short, thick wealth of red that was her headfur, sat down by her and gave her a light squeeze around the waist. "Not to me, Darling. I'll see if she's still up, and ask her about it," he offered.

Debbye gave him an adoring look. "Would you, dear? I'd really appreciate it."

"Be back in no time." And he hopped up and padded out.

##

_** Friday 16 September 2016, 8:04am ** _

"No, seriously, you can get almost everything that you really need right here. Even a lot of specialty items." Wendy had volunteered to drive the Evanses into town to Quinn's place, saying she needed to see him on a separate matter anyway. They'd parked as close as they could get and walked the short remaining distance to the store.

"Huh. Will you look at that." Lee stopped on the sidewalk and stared at the side of the big general hardware, estimating how far back from the street it extended. "How in the world does he do enough business, way out here in the hinterlands, to support that much stock?"

"Beats me. I'm glad he does, though." She pushed the door open and they entered the warm, dark building.

Quinn's chair stood empty by the woodstove. They could hear the sounds of movement and low voices coming from the back, and moved on in.

"I think you'll be able to find what you want over here in this area next to the main counter."

Debbye was looking all around the place. "This is too cool. I think I just stepped back in time about sixty years."

"It does give that impression, yes. I'm sure he leaves it this way on purpose. But he seems to be able to find anything he has in stock." She chuckled to herself, saying, "A few weeks ago I was in here and a local farmer came by. Said he had run out of 'oil of smoke' and wanted another bottle. Quinn leaned back in his chair there for a minute and thought, then got up and went into the back. I had no idea what 'oil of smoke' was, so I followed. He went all the way to the back wall, to this low shelf with a bunch of little, dark bottles, moved a few out of the way, and pulled one from _waaaay_ in the back. I swear it had twenty years of dust on it, but Quinn knew right where to look. I asked him what the stuff was, but he didn't know! If you can imagine that. Knew _where_ it was, but not _what_ it was. And then he told the fellow that was his last bottle and he couldn't get any more, because it hadn't been made since 1941."

Debbye goggled at her. "Pull the other one!"

"Dead serious."

The aged raccoon in question made his appearance then, and grinned when he caught sight of Wendy. "Mornin' Miss." He went over to his chair and sat down.

Wendy introduced the Evanses to him, and he gravely shook their paws. Lee bowed and said, "It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Coonworth."

"Likewise. Help yeh?"

"I need some facial brushes," said Debbye.

"Be over on t'other side of the counter." He pointed, and the couple moved over that way.

Wendy looked down at the raccoon. "He came back."

Quinn raised one eyebrow. He didn't have to ask whom she meant. "Have much to say?"

"Yeah. Lots. Says there are a bunch of species purists in the area hunting hybrids." She glanced over in the Evans' direction. They were busy picking out a brush.

"Purists, huh? Know which bunch?"

"No, and I don't think he could have told me if he _had_ known. His reaction to them was . . . different. He really didn't like 'em, I could tell that."

Quinn snorted. "Extremists. Damn fools."

"So anyway, he said he had to warn me, even though I'm not a hybrid, because nobody else around here would listen."

He cocked an eye at the vixen. "What you aim to do?"

"First I'm gonna put Cinnamon on her guard. Tried to call her last night, but she was out."

He nodded. "Good place to start. I'll spread the word, too."

"You won't tell anyfur where you heard it, will you?" She sounded a little worried.

"Won't nobody ask."

She didn't know what to say to that. "Oh. Okay. Well, listen, I'll . . ." She broke off when Lee and Debbye came back over.

Debbye was smiling. Her face had benefited from a brief grooming. "These will do very well. You have a surprisingly complete stock, sir."

"Thank 'ee." The oldster got up and went behind his counter to ring up the sale. He took the debit card she offered, passed her a receipt, and resumed his position by the stove.

Wendy patted his paw. "Thanks, Quinn. I really appreciate it."

He gave her a wink. "Glad t'help." He picked up his paper and found his place, and his customers left.

##


	7. Chapter 3 A Slight Detour Part B

_**Chapter Three – A Slight Detour – Part B**_

**Those who will not reason, are bigots,  
****those who cannot, are fools,  
****and those who dare not, are slaves.**

_**-Lord Byron **_

**##**

_** Friday 16 September 2016, 11:15pm ** _

About twelve klicks north and slightly east of Montpelier lies a small community that goes by the name of Adamant. Actually an unincorporated part of the Town of Calais, it has seen little change in the last half century. Upright, solid citizens, most of whom work in Montpelier, make up its stock.

On the site of an old sawmill that had burned down over eighty years back stands a small park known as Adamant Green. A pretty place, it is a favorite lunchtime haunt of the locals, and during the day, the playground resounds to the laughter and happy squeals of the neighborhood children.

Now, though, none of these good furs was to be seen. None would willingly have had any part in what was going on, and most would have tried to stop it.

The gate across the entrance, normally closed and locked each evening at sunset, had been expertly picked, but was left almost shut for the sake of appearance. Several vehicles were lined up along the rear of the small parking lot, out of direct sight of the road.

"That's how it's gonna be. Sunday night's better because more of 'em will be home. Less traffic."

A slim, black panther checked down his list. "Fine, then. And no explosives."

"Right. They just aren't necessary."

The cat looked up at the big Irish Setter and snickered. "This'll almost be too easy."

"Come on, Ralph. You expect anything tough from a buncha hicks? Told you my guys knew what they needed."

The cat shook his head in disbelief. "One locked door and one old deputy. Not even a general alarm system. Damien, is there _anyone_ around here who _ever_ breaks the law?"

"Besides speeding tickets I don't believe so. 'Course the deputy's gotta go, anyway."

"Well, yeah. No witnesses."

"All right, now that _that's_ settled. . . ." He rubbed his paws together and spent the next ten minutes passing out territory to his lieutenants.

"Remember: we ain't looking for a fairground. Remote is good, but remote with decent access is better. Check the state parks, the wildlife management areas, that sort of thing. And if you find any scumbreds along the way, and you've got a good opportunity, go ahead and take 'em out. Make it permanent and make it messy."

That comment earned him several wide grins.

##

_** Saturday 17 September 2016, 9:30am ** _

Lee and Debbye had discovered that Wendy's boast concerning her breakfasts had not been empty. Nor were their stomachs afterward.

On Friday (after getting the brushes) they had broken their fast in fine style, and spent the day touring the area. The many small towns and parks and hilly vistas made for a wonderfully relaxing outing for them both. They returned to the Inn that night about an hour after dark to find Wendy's 'light supper' spread out in their Receiving Room: a huge cold meat & cheese plate with a pleasing array of condiments; a wide selection of breads, rolls, and buns; two different and delightful salads, one with a base of Romaine lettuce, parsley and sunflower seeds, the other a fruit salad of apples, kiwis, raisins, and glazed almonds; and their choice of coffee, hot teas, cold milk, and iced fruit juices. It was perfect.

This morning, after polishing off the last of the buckwheat-blackberry pancakes, the Evanses had taken their coffee cups out to the kitchen to visit with Wendy and Ellen.

Wendy was busy with a batch of puff-paste dough, but she and Ellen seemed glad of the company. "Sure, have a seat. Plenty of space." Wendy gestured around the huge, bright room. Lee and Debbye took chairs at the small multi-purpose table and stretched out to ease the pressure on their midsections.

"Ms. Wylde, do you eat your own cooking?" Lee wanted to know.

"Yep. My personal tastes are both eclectic and discriminating, and I like to know exactly what I'm eating. Better restaurants are usually pretty good about using only natural ingredients, but who can afford to eat at better restaurants all the time?"

"Right you are, ma'am. As you may imagine, this is something of a splurge for us." He reached over and laid his paw on his wife's. She turned hers palm up and laced her fingers with his, remarking, "And worth every penny."

"Anyway," continued Lee, "I think that if I were to stay here for any length of time I'd have to do something permanent to prevent over-eating."

Debbye said, "Amen to that! I can normally stop myself without too much trouble, but your breakfasts are … indescribable." She patted her tummy.

"Well, if it gets to be _too_ painful let me know. I can whip up some brackish water and moldy crusts. That should hold the overeating to a minimum."

"Bleahhhh!" they chorused, then chuckled. "We'll keep that in mind," said Lee. "Just don't try to second-guess our desires before checking with us, okay?"

"Oh, sure, sure. Anything you want. Customer's always right." Wendy was all grins. "So, where are you two headed today?"

"Nowhere," replied Debbye. "We thought we'd stick around here. You know, stroll the grounds, lounge in our rooms. Which, by the way, if we haven't told you before, we love!"

"No problem. That's fine with me. I'll be doing some cooking today, but if you can amuse yourselves, feel free to prowl around. There are a couple thousand old books in the library. And the creek is probably gorgeous by now."

"Really? Which way is it? The creek, I mean, not the library."

Wendy pointed out the back door at the start of the little path and explained how to find it. "Just don't fall in. I can attest from sad experience that the water feels like it just melted off a glacier."

Lee snickered and said, "We'll be careful." He got up and stretched. "I feel the definite need of a nice walk."

Debbye gave him an arch smile and said, "Care for some company?"

"Sounds like just the thing." He offered his arm, and they strolled out to the porch and headed across the back lawn at a leisurely pace.

Ellen watched them for a bit, then observed to Wendy, "Nice folks!"

"Yes, they are. We haven't had any rude or offensive guests so far. Everyone's been really pleasant, which both surprises and gladdens me."

"Why is it surprising?"

"Oh . . . just from what I know about furry nature. There are lots of unhappy furs in this world, and most of 'em travel sometime."

Ellen shrugged. "Eh. Maybe." She turned from the window and headed for the dining room to collect the breakfast dishes.

##

_** 1:10pm ** _

Lee and Debbye were deeply engrossed in two of the history books in the Inn library when Ellen stuck her head in the door. "There you are!"

"Huh?"

"What?"

The mink chuckled. "Wanted to know if either of you wanted any lunch. We're about to sit down and you're welcome to join us."

Debbye looked over at Lee. "I could do with a spot of tea and a salad."

He nodded. "A little tuna wouldn't go amiss, especially if you have some stone-ground mustard to go with it."

Ellen replied, "Oh, she's got that, all right. I've never heard of a more well-stocked pantry, and I think she has every condiment ever invented. She's got three dozen kinds of hot sauce, nearly as many relishes and chutneys, fifteen kinds of mustard, over a hundred different herbal concoctions. You can take your pick." She dimpled then, and said, "But I think you might change your mind when you see what she whipped up."

"Well." Lee noted his place and closed his book. "Let's do it." And they followed her to the kitchen.

Wendy had bowls and soup spoons laid out, and gracing the center of the table was a large round of crusty bread, still warm from the oven. Lee took a deep sniff, ears forward, his whiskers quivering. "What on earth is that?"

The vixen smirked and said, "You're probably smelling the Tuna Cheddar Chowder."

"Ooooooo." He walked over to the stove and hovered over the pot. "Mmmmmm! That smells _good!_"

"This one falls into the category of 'cheap' dishes. A big pot like this only costs around six or seven dollars to put together. And it's one of my favorites."

"That I can understand."

Wendy noted the slight look of concern on Debbye's face, and said, "I have something for you, too." She swished over to the refrigerator and removed a small congealed salad sitting on a bed of Bibb lettuce. "Carrots, celery, walnuts, pecans, and black olives in a light tomato aspic."

"Now you're talking!" She received the dish eagerly.

Wendy ladled up the soup and they all sat down. "Lunches being impromptu," Wendy said, "we don't stand on a whole lot of formality. So I trust your paws if you trust mine." Having said that, she broke off a generous chunk of the fresh bread. The rest followed suit.

Wendy and Ellen waited, paws folded in their laps, while the Evanses said grace. Their guests were extremely regular in this regard, as they were with a short period of Bible study and prayer each morning. Wendy had observed, but not commented on, these practices. Neither Lee nor Debbye had made any overtures about having Wendy or Ellen join them.

Today, however . . . . .

Lee swallowed and asked, "I wonder if either of you could do me a favor?"

"What would that be?"

"Recommend a church we could attend tomorrow. We weren't able to get much information on this area as far as that goes. I guess the congregations around here don't advertise much."

Wendy and Ellen looked at each other and shrugged. Ellen said, "There's a Catholic church in Vergennes. My mom goes to Mass there sometimes. And I think there's a United Congregational Assembly there, too."

Debbye frowned and said, "I'm not familiar with that denomination. Do you know what their doctrinal stance is?"

"Ho! Not me." Ellen waved a paw.

"Well," said Wendy, "There's Mercy Chapel."

Ellen rolled her eyes and smacked herself on the side of the head. "Duh! Yeah, Cinnamon's church. How'd I miss that?"

"What kind of church is it?" Lee wanted to know.

Wendy grinned. "Well, the _furs_ that go there are nice. I've never been myself, but if the attendees are any indication, you ought to fit in."

Lee raised an eyebrow. "You don't attend church?"

Wendy shook her head decisively. "If God wants to tell me anything, He knows where to find me."

The cat and squirrel looked at each other, shrugged, then looked back at Wendy, and said, "Oh."

Everyone ate a few more bites in silence, then Debbye asked, "Can you tell us where it is?"

"Sure. I'll draw you a map. It's easy to find. And believe me, if I can find it without any trouble, anyone can."

Lee said, "Okay, great!"

Debbye asked, "Who's Cinnamon?"

"A friend of ours. Red squirrel, she's really nice." Wendy paused and considered the couple while chewing on a bite of bread. She swallowed and asked, "Do you guys have any children?"

Lee grinned. "That we do: twins. They'll be four in a couple of weeks. They're staying with Debbye's folks while we're on our little get-away."

"I see. In that case, you and Cinnamon will have something in common."

"Really? What's that?"

"She has a daughter, Emily, whose markings are similar to her father's. He's a Siamese cat."

"Well!" remarked Debbye, "I'd like to talk with her. How old is Emily?"

"She'll be . . . six, I believe, in December."

"What do you know about that? A playmate," said Debbye. She turned to Lee, grinned, and said, "Gee, Honey, we should have brought _ours_ along."

"Oh, no, we shouldn't!" Lee held up both paws and shook his head vehemently.

His wife giggled at him and patted his shoulder. "Just teasing. I don't want to share you with anyone, either." Turning back to Wendy, she asked, "Do you know what time the service starts."

"No. But I can give you the pastor's number. Cinnamon gave it to me. She's really involved there."

"Sounds good." Debbye nodded to herself. "I'll give him a ring and see what's what."

##

_** Sunday 18 September 2016, 10:45am ** _

Lee pulled up at the end of the line of cars along the low fence east of the church, backing into place. He and Debbye sat there for a minute, admiring the view.

This side of the church was in full sun, as was the immense maple on its far side, crowning the neat, white building with a halo of golden red. A few furs stood at the entrance, chatting and greeting and passing out the worship bulletins. The Evanses got out and walked over.

A young canine couple and a squirrel were at the entrance when they got there. The dogs extended paws. "Hi! Welcome to Mercy Chapel. I'm Loren Spannil and this is my wife Grace."

Lee and Debbye shook their paws and returned the introduction.

The tall squirrel presented himself as Alan Grey, the church's pastor. He and Debbye sized each other up curiously.

"Evans . . . that wouldn't be your maiden name, would it?"

"No, that would be 'Squirrel'." She gave him a frank stare. "You remind me forcefully of my father."

"And you could be my oldest daughter, in a few years."

"That's odd. Does she have red headfur as well?"

"She does. My wife is a red squirrel."

"Very interesting. I get mine from my maternal grandmother."

"I wonder if we might be distantly related. Do you have any 'Whisks' or 'Furls' in your family tree?"

"Not that I know of, sir. How about 'Stouffer' or 'Hoardar'?"

"I think there might be some 'Stouffers' on my mother's side of the family. I'll have to ask her." He smiled apologetically at Lee. "Sorry about that. Squirrels have a natural bent toward family ties."

"I understand perfectly, sir. I've seen the same thing happen at home." He winked at his wife, who punched him lightly on the arm. They took a bulletin apiece, and went on inside.

##

The old church building was packed with at least a hundred furs of every description. Dress ranged from very formal in a couple of cases, all the way down to jeans and sweats. The visitors' casual clothes fit the mainstream well. The praise song time was good. The fellowship time was good (and its format unusual in their experience, with better than twenty of the members coming up to greet them). And the preaching was excellent. Pastor Grey was well-studied in Latin, Greek and Hebrew, as well as the secular history of the Holy Land, and was able to give a great deal of context to the parable he used as his text. Lee and Debbye thoroughly enjoyed the service.

They had gotten a detailed description of Cinnamon from their hostess, and spotted her and her daughter on the other side of the church near the start of the service. Debbye remarked to Lee on the unusual and beautiful fur pattern the little girl carried.

They received a surprise when the praise team got up in front of the church. Two males and three females trooped up to the microphones. But one of the males looked as if he bulked as much as the rest of the group put together. They couldn't readily identify his species, but he towered at least half a meter over the others, and was more than proportionally as wide. He and one of the femmes picked up guitars and got things going.

Debbye leaned over and whispered, "Honey, is he a bear of some sort?"

"I . . . don't think so. The muzzle looks more like a weasel or a martin. And I think he has facial stripes. He might be part wolverine. That big tail looks about right. I don't know." They studied the huge fur for a moment, then the singing started with _Light The Fire_. The fur in question had a pleasant, powerful baritone that blended well with the high tenor of the cat beside him. The ladies' trio joined in as the echo, and soon everyone was singing and clapping.

Later, after the final hymn and the benediction, the Evanses threaded their way through the mass of furs over to Cinnamon. She was helping Emily gather up all her things, and glanced up and smiled when they stopped in the aisle beside her pew.

"Hey! You look like outta-towners. This your first time visiting with us?"

"Yes, it is. My name is Lee Evans, and this is my wife, Debbye." The femmes shook paws. Emily, peering around her mother, grinned at Lee and said, "You got a stwipey tail. You a waccoon?"

He gave her a broad smile. "No, I'm a cat."

"My tail's dus got a smudge on da end."

"So it does."

"Yours stwipey alla way down?"

"Yes it is. Want to see it?" He swished his long tail around to his front, grabbed it, and used the tip to tickle Emily's muzzle. She squealed and ran off toward the front of the church.

Cinnamon chuckled at her daughter. "She never slows down. Keeps me on red alert most of the time. You guys make a cute couple. Where you from? Sure was a good service today, wasn't it? You got any kids?"

"Uhh . . ." Lee was trying desperately to sort out a cogent response to that verbal barrage. Debbye answered, "Yes, we do. Twins. They'll be four on the tenth of October."

"Wee-hah. I'll just bet _you_ stay busy, ma'am."

"You're right. But we left them back in Ohio with the grandparents so we could get away for a few days."

Cinnamon's expression rearranged itself into a neutral wall. "Hm. Grandparents. How nice." She resumed gathering up her things. Lee and Debbye heard a commotion behind them and turned. And gaped.

The huge fur from the praise team had started juggling. Specifically, he was juggling two of the speakers, and Emily, who laughed and cackled non-stop.

Cinnamon marched over to them, put her fists on her hips, and demanded, "Emily! Will you leave Mr. Karl alone? He's busy!"

"Awww, Mommy!" She used his paw as a springboard on her next downward arc, and sailed over her mother's head to land in a pew. "He started it!"

Karl grinned. "Did not." He set the other two objects on the floor.

"Did _too_!"

"Did not."

"Did _too_!"

"Quiet!" Cinnamon picked up her daughter and held her eye-to-eye. "Any more of that nonsense and it's no picnic today!"

The little girl sobered very quickly. "I be nice, Mommy." She gave her mother a tight hug. "I be real nice an' we go on a picnic?"

Karl's ears pricked forward.

"Yes, but only if you behave yourself. You can run and bounce and scream to your heart's content once we get to the park. But right now I want you to stay in the pew while I talk to these nice folks."

"Okay, Mommy." She plumped down on the cushion and started looking through a hymnal.

Cinnamon turned back to the Evanses. "Sorry about that. She's a little rambunctious this morning. We've been out of town for a few days and got back _really_ late last night. I promised her a picnic this afternoon as a reward, _if_ she stayed out of trouble."

Lee nodded. "Sounds like a fabulous idea. It's a perfect day for it. And if the weather report can be believed, there won't be many more like it."

"How's that?"

"There's a large cold front moving in off the Canadian shield. They're calling for snow next week."

The red squirrel's muzzle dropped open. "Snow? But it's almost . . ." she looked at the ceiling for a few seconds, doing the conversion. "Um, almost twenty degrees out there now. Even if it did snow, it wouldn't stick."

Karl had come over to stand behind Cinnamon and was listening to the conversation. Debbye eyed him up and down as surreptitiously as she could manage.

"Well," continued Lee, "that's what they said. I know it doesn't look like it now, that's why I tempered my comment."

"Huh. Well, enjoy it while it lasts, I always say. This, too, shall pass."

"Did I hear correctly that you're planning a picnic today?" Karl asked.

Cinnamon looked back at him. "That's right."

"Mind if I ask where?"

"Gleason's Brook in Camel's Hump State Park. It's not too far from here, and Emily really loves it. There's a gorgeous waterfall, and some really big maples. She likes to pretend she's a sugar-glider."

"I see." He gave the squirrel a thoughtful look, and smiled. "Mind if I tag along?"

She stared at him. "What?"

"Would you mind some company?"

". . . Company?"

"I'm inviting myself along on your picnic. Is that okay?"

"Umm. Sure. Yeah. We'd, uh, be pleased to have you." The slim squirrel's stomach clenched as her mind, not to mention her adrenal glands, kicked into overdrive. She'd been more than a little taken with the big fellow when she joined the church not quite three years back, and had done a good bit of maneuvering to get a date out of him. To no avail. He seemed impervious to flirting. Nor had he shown any interest in any of the other femmes around the county. Cinnamon had pretty much closed the book on him from that aspect.

_Maybe it's time to blow the dust off the cover, eh?_

Karl turned to Lee and Debbye and introduced himself. "Are you just passing through the area?"

"Oh, no, we're staying at Ash Creek Inn through Wednesday."

Cinnamon's eyes lit up. "Cool! Ain't that just about the niftiest place you've ever seen in your life?"

"It's near the top of the list. So is Ms. Wylde's cooking, I might add. We love it there."

Cinnamon put a confidential paw on Debbye's shoulder. "What do you think of her nut meringues?"

The older squirrel's eyes showed more than a spark of interest. "What's a nut meringue?"

"Oh, girl! You simply _have not lived_ until you've tasted one. Most incredible thing I ever put in my mouth. I can't believe she hasn't offered to make 'em for you."

"Well, she did ask if we wanted any confections, and we said 'no'. Think we ought to make an exception in this case?"

"Definitely."

Karl asked, "What plans did you two have for lunch?"

"None really," answered Lee. "Thought we'd go back to the Inn and see what was available for scrounging. Whatever's there is bound to be good."

"How would you feel about a picnic?"

Debbye clapped her paws. "Oooo! Lee, let's go! I want to see the waterfall."

_Uh-oh!_ Cinnamon hadn't counted on that. "I, uh, don't really have that much food with me."

Karl waved her objection off. "Not to worry. I have to go by the shop first anyway. I'll pick up something."

"Well, hey," offered Lee, "we could run by the Inn and grab a little something to snack on. We'll need to drive our own car anyway. Can we follow you?"

Karl nodded. "Works for me. Cinnamon, would you and Emily like to ride with me?"

Emotionally, Cinnamon felt like a sailor in the crow's nest during a full gale. _Is he actually interested in me? Is that why he wanted to come along? Then why did he invite another couple to come, a couple we don't even know? But then why does he want me to ride with him? Ouch! My brain hurts!_

"Cinnamon?"

"Huh?"

"Did you want to ride with me? You don't have to, I just thought it would be sensible from a gas-usage standpoint."

"Oh. Umm. Okay." _Darn. He's just being pragmatic and stuff._ "You want to leave from here?"

"No, you go drop your car off at your place and I'll pick you up after I hit the house. I'll take you back there later. It's no trouble."

"Yeah, sure. That'll work."

Emily piped up, "We goin' onna picnic, Mommy?"

"Yes, sweetie, we are."

Karl turned back to the visitors, giving them a careful scrutiny. "Are you here on your honeymoon? You have that look about you."

"Oh, no, we've been married for a long time. This is just a little get-away. Some relaxation without having to worry about the kids."

He grinned. "You just have to do that every so often, don't you?"

Lee nodded. "It helps."

"And you'll be at the Inn through Wednesday?"

"That's right," agreed Debbye. "We got there last Thursday. I just absolutely love that place! It's so big, and yet so comfortable. Ms. Wylde has done some amazing things with it."

"That she has. By the way, has she asked you just to call her 'Wendy' yet?"

"Well . . . yes, she has," admitted Debbye. "I suppose we should. Everybody else does, even the police officer."

Karl frowned. "What police officer?"

"Actually he was a deputy sheriff. He stopped by the Inn on Saturday to get our statements for the inquest … but then, you wouldn't have any way of knowing about that, would you?"

Karl's expression showed a familiar interest. "Care to fill me in?"

Lee said, "We stayed in Montpelier on Wednesday and when we left the restaurant after supper, as we were going to our car, we were attacked."

"A mugger?"

"No, I don't think so." Lee shook his head. "There were four of them.

"Four of them . . ." he said to himself, a look of concentration flowing across his face.

"I believe they were species purists who took an unhealthy interest in our relationship and decided to take matters into their own paws."

Karl looked them over briefly. "Unsuccessfully, it would appear."

"Yes. We both have black belts in jiu jitsu and are ranked as instructors in tai chi shuan, as well as having explored several other types of armed and unarmed training."

Karl's grin stretched all the way across his head. "I guess they had something of a rude awakening."

"You could say that," agreed Debbye with a grin of her own. "When they regained consciousness. In the hospital."

"Hoo-hoo! Good job." He got a thoughtful look on his face for a few seconds, then nodded to himself, muttering, "_That's very useful information to have_," under his breath. He looked back at them and asked, "Would you like for me to come collect you at the Inn?"

"Is it on the way for you?"

"Enhh. As much as the Inn can be on the way to anything, I suppose."

"Well, since we don't have a clue as to where we're going, that will be fine."

"Perfect. We'll be by in, oh, forty-five minutes or so."

"See you then." And they went their separate ways.

##


	8. Chapter 3 A Slight Detour Part C

_**Chapter Three – A Slight Detour – Part C**_

##

_** Sunday 18 September 2016, 3:40pm ** _

The picnic lunch, in spite of being a throw-together affair, was an unqualified success.

When they stopped by the Inn, Debbye had asked Wendy about the possibility of some nut meringues, and the vixen had happily supplied her with four dozen of the crunchy delicacies. Lee thought they weren't bad, but they sent the squirrel into transports. A mere fifteen remained by the time everyone assembled at the park, and Cinnamon laughed for a solid minute at her guilty expression.

Cinnamon had sandwich makin's, a couple of two-liter bottles of soda, and a big bag of barbecue flavor corn chips.

Karl brought a huge cooler full of juice packs and protein drinks, a big pack of tortillas and at least three liters of burrito filling he'd gotten from Wendy. He also had a small selection of ultra-hot sauces from his private stock. Emily expressed an interest in the contents of the small, brightly-colored bottles.

"Oh, I don't know, kiddle," Karl cautioned. "I don't think you'd care for the taste."

"Smells good! C'n I twy it?"

"Well . . . ." He looked at his collection. "I guess 'Devil's Dew' would be the least fiery of the bunch. Let me just give you a drop." And so saying, he deposited one scant drop on Emily's burrito.

She took a bite, and chewed with reflective enjoyment. "Dat's good! C'n I have more?"

Cinnamon, frowning a little (she was well aware of Karl's preferences in terms of hot food) asked, "Are you sure, Honey? That stuff is pretty hot. Sometimes it takes a minute to creep up on you."

"But it's weally good, Mommy!" She held her burrito out to Karl. "More, pwease?"

He and Cinnamon looked at each other and shrugged. "Maybe she has a natural taste for it," he said, as he sprinkled the end of the little girl's lunch. She wolfed it and asked for more.

Grinning slightly, Karl chose a hotter sauce, Blair's 'Sudden Death', and dribbled a little on what was left of her burrito. It, too, disappeared without a quiver.

Emily smacked her lips and proclaimed the sauce excellent.

Lee asked, "What is that stuff, that you're being so cautious with it?"

Karl passed him the bottle and asked, "Are you familiar with hot chili peppers?"

"Somewhat. I don't really use them myself, just a little cayenne when I make chili." He used his paw to waft the air from the open end of the bottle to his nose, blinked rapidly and turned his head away. "Wow. No, I don't believe I'd like any, thanks." He gave the bottle back and asked, "What kind of pepper is that?"

"Primarily habañeros, with a few other ingredients for flavor."

"She certainly seems to like it." He pointed at Emily, who had confiscated the remaining two bottles and poured a little of each onto her plate. She was happily dipping chips into the magma-like fluid and popping them into her mouth one after another.

Cinnamon was aghast. "Holy cow! I wish Wendy could see this." She knelt beside her daughter and looked at the bottles: 'Mad Dog Inferno' and something called 'Brain Damage'. "Good stuff, kiddo?"

_Munch-munch-munch._ "Uh-huh." _Munch-munch-munch._

Karl asked, "Have you used hot peppers at home much?"

"Hardly at all. Kinda like what Lee was talkin' about." She looked from Emily to Karl and said, "Would genetics have anything to do with it?"

"That's a possibility. Why do you ask?"

"Because her father was a die-hard chili-head. Kept a jar of pickled scotch bonnets in the fridge, and had some with every meal. I told him he'd scorched off his taste buds."

"Well, she certainly seems to be content, and chilis are actually quite good for you." He shrugged again, and tousled the little squirrel's headfur. "Eat all you want, child. Just be _extremely_ careful not to get it in your eyes or nose. It would hurt like you wouldn't believe."

"Thank you, Mr. Karl." She slipped the bottle of 'Inferno' into one of her pockets.

After lunch, Karl disappeared for a half-hour, explaining later that he'd taken a walk through the woods behind the waterfall. Emily found a pair of towering maples growing close enough together that some of the branch tips intertwined, and spent her time jumping from one to the other. The Evanses made much over the waterfall, and Debbye spent the better part of an hour climbing around it with Cinnamon. The red squirrel's initial resentment over their presence melted away as the two femmes talked. They covered jobs and relationships, discipline problems and childhood illnesses, hobbies and religion. It transpired that they had identical interpretations of most of the basic doctrines of the faith, a fact that surprised them both, given the radically different environments in which each was raised.

When Karl returned, he and Lee compared notes on fighting techniques. Karl was impressed with the teamwork aspect of their training, and quizzed him at length. He also expressed a great interest in their experience with _pentjak silat_.

"Didn't your teacher have a problem with your involvement in the other art forms?"

"We didn't tell him. They usually _are_ pretty strict about that, and he was no exception. We only studied with him for a little over a year. I mean, of course you probably know this or you wouldn't have asked that question, but a true practitioner of silat doesn't use anything else, and considers it akin to sacrilege to even make the suggestion."

"Heh. Right you are. But if you kept at it for a year, you must have gotten enough of the 'hard' side to be able to tell the point from the hilt."

"We did. He finally got fed up with us and wouldn't teach us any more after he determined that we had no real interest in attaining the knowledge of the _ilmu_."

"Yeah, I'll bet. They get heavily into the traditional, spiritual side of the discipline."

"Correct. And his beliefs ran contrary to ours. So there you are."

Karl asked, "Did you get training in projectiles?"

"Yes, but not then. We studied some of the Chinese arts for that."

"You consider yourself proficient?"

"Yes. I'm best with shurriken." He pulled out his key fob and showed it to Karl.

The wolverine examined it, popping the disk into his paw. "Nice. This your design?"

"It's my idea. A friend made it for me after I described what I wanted."

"Never unarmed. Good plan." Karl returned the objects.

"I like it." Lee reassembled his fob and stuck it back into his pocket.

"So does Debbye use shurriken as well?"

"Shurriken, knives, sticks." Lee grinned broadly. "Clutch purses. She's a dead shot with anything she picks up. Her ability to hit what she aims at is spooky sometimes. But she's most comfortable with throwing knives."

Karl nodded to himself. "Very interesting."

"Maybe she'll give you a demonstration some time."

"I'd like that very much." Karl laid a conspiratorial paw on the shorter fur's shoulder and said, "Come over to the truck with me. I brought some things I think you might like."

"Oh, really?" Lee caught the gleam in the black eye and smiled. "And what might that be?"

"Blades," he answered, heading to the vehicle.

"Oh, ho!" Lee rubbed his paws together and followed the wolverine.

Karl opened the rear door on the driver's side and pulled out a long, flat box. He took it around to the tailgate, laid it down, flipped the catches, and opened the lid.

Lee caught his breath and stared. Eight slim, elegant, dark bluish-purple knives of various lengths and widths lay in fitted cushions. All were straight and double-edged, tapering to a point, with simple guards and wrapped hilts. "What _are_ they?"

"You mean 'what are they made of'?"

The cat nodded silently as he gazed at the magnificent things.

Karl lifted one out of the case and passed it to Lee, whose eyes widened in surprise at its weight. He glanced up at the big fur, noting his grin of satisfaction, and said, "That thing's about twice as heavy as it ought to be."

"It's made of cobalt."

Lee frowned. "You mean a cobalt superalloy? Like Stellite?"

"No, not at all. There's a thin core of beryllium bronze in each one. Laid over that is a laminar coating of cobalt glass: several hundred to a couple thousand layers, each a micron or so thick."

"_Cobalt_ glass? I've heard of steel glass, but I wasn't aware that any other metal was commercially available in that form." He closely examined the long knife and held it up to the sky. Indeed, it was very slightly translucent right at the edge. "Frankly, given what little experience I have with steel glass, there isn't much point in using a more expensive metal. That stuff is indestructible for all practical purposes."

_**[ The material he referred to, Gentle Reader, steel glass, or Super-Hard Steel, is an amorphous form of the metal. It had become commercially available in 2002 after the Idaho National Engineering and Environmental Lab discovered a cheap way to fabricate it. Typically applied in the form of a thermal spray, the monomolecular mist impinges the target at extremely high speeds, and freezes to a solid too quickly for the usual crystals to form. The result is one of the hardest metallic compounds in existence, approaching the surface hardness of a good grade of tungsten carbide, yet it is incredibly tough as well. It cannot be removed from its substrate, even with a hammer and chisel. Quite a remarkable substance, really. ]**_

Karl nodded. "You're right. And I have some of those, too, but they weren't heavy enough. So I experimented with some other metals and found this. I stuck with it because it has a good weight, and I'm very fond of the color."

"They are beautiful, I'll give you that." He admired the mirror-like finish, angling it so that it winked in the sunlight.

Lee made to test the edge with his thumb, but Karl shot out a paw and said, "Whoa!"

"What?"

For an answer, Karl took one of the other blades, plucked a stalk of grass, tossed the stalk into the air and let it fall onto the knife. The stem parted neatly, and continued its way to the ground in two pieces.

"That edge is only two or three atoms thick. It is much sharper than any razor you ever picked up, and as sharp as the best microtomes. Please don't touch it."

Lee raised an eyebrow, gave the big fur a sidelong glance, and said, "Got it." He laid the knife carefully in its spot. "So is the cobalt glass harder than steel glass?"

"Marginally. Tops out at around ninety-five on the "C" scale. As I mentioned, I was more interested in the mass. But it does seem to take an edge better."

Lee looked lovingly at the set. "And you made these yourself?"

"Yep."

"Which one is your favorite?"

"My favorite isn't in the box." As when a prestidigitator plucks a coin from someone's ear, two knives simply appeared in Karl's paws. In his left he held a wide, heavy throwing knife fifteen centimeters long, in his right was what could only be called a spatha. Double-edged, and fifty-five centimeters in length, with a long handle sporting a counterbalance knob at the end, it tapered only slightly until a few centimeters from the tip, where it arced to a point.

Lee pursed his lips and nodded. "You don't go unarmed, either, I see."

"Nope." The blades disappeared into their hidden sheaths. Lee tilted his head side to side, but could see no evidence of the weapons.

"That's a good trick. You'll have to show me how you do that some time."

"I'd be happy to. It's not that much of a trick, really."

Lee turned his attention back to the box. "I don't suppose you'd consider selling a couple of them?"

"No."

Lee's ears and whiskers drooped slightly. He ran a paw over one of the hilts.

"I wouldn't really feel right about selling them. But if you and your wife would like to pick out one each, it would please me greatly."

Lee looked back up at him, eyes wide and ears straight up. ". . . . . For free?"

Karl nodded.

Lee examined the knives again and picked one up. "I don't know if _**I'd**_ feel right about taking it for nothing."

"I'd be grateful if you would."

"Why is that?"

"A good blade needs a good owner. I feel that you would honor my efforts in creating it."

"Karl . . ." Lee hesitated. "I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll take one."

He grinned. "I'll take one." He tested five of the knives, going through a set of stances and forms with each, before choosing one of the thinner ones some twenty-eight centimeters long. "This is the one." It had a utilitarian hilt that fit his paw well, and a short, square cross-guard. He performed a flashing series of moves, ending with it held near his side, point down. "Nice balance."

"Thanks."

"I'm not really sure how I'm going to transport it, though, given that edge."

"Here." Karl lifted the top section of the case out of the box. Underneath was a selection of sheaths.

An incredulous smile grew on Lee's muzzle. He looked at Karl and asked, "Did you plan this?"

"Weeeelllllll. Maybe a little. I wasn't sure if I'd be offering you a knife, but I thought it a strong possibility.

Lee chose a sheath and looked it over. The cover and loops were woven of a dense, dark gray fiber in a twill pattern.

"That Kevlar?"

"Uh-huh."

He peered into its interior. It was lined with a hard, shiny, gray material. He ran a finger over it and gave Karl a questioning look.

"Protection for the Kevlar. Spring-temper steel, with a micron of tungsten disulfide for permanent lubrication."

"Ah-huh." Lee bit his lip to keep the grin at bay. "You do that yourself, too?"

"Yes."

"Would you consider coming to work for me?"

Karl put one fist on his hip and leaned his other paw against the truck. "Now, what would cause you to make an offer like that?"

"I could really, _really_ use someone with your talent on my design team."

The big fur shook his head. "Thanks, but I like it here. I'm very happy doing what I do."

Lee sighed. "Okay. I was afraid you'd say that, but I can understand." Lee tapped a thumb against his muzzle, giving the wolverine a long, calculating look. "Could I, maybe, get you to do some design work for me on commission from time to time?"

Karl shrugged. "Depends. I'll be happy to take a look if you run into a snag on an interesting project, strictly on the Q-T. But only as a favor, _gratis_. I'm not interested in having vendor status, and I do _not_ want a security clearance."

Lee frowned in surprise. "Why not?"

"Because there are some folks who could cause me trouble if they knew where to find me. I like my anonymity."

"Oh." The cat was somewhat nonplussed at that statement.

Karl chuckled. "It is a bit confusing, I know. But collecting enemies was an occupational hazard in my former line of work."

"I see." Lee inserted the knife into its sheath. Light tension from the spring steel held it in place. "So may I assume that your 'former line of work' was classified in certain respects?"

"That would be a safe assumption."

"Fair enough. _That_, I'm familiar with. Do you have an address where I can send you my design problems?"

"I have a P.O. drawer in Montpelier. Will that do?"

"It will. Don't let me forget to get that from you before we leave."

Karl grinned. "It's a deal."

##

_** 4:46pm ** _

Debbye had been overjoyed with her knife. She chose the longest one in the box, stating that it qualified as a short sword for someone of her stature.

"As long as it isn't a throwing knife, I may as well get one that will do maximum damage."

The weight factor concerned Karl. Her choice was a bit over forty centimeters long, and not proportionally as narrow as the rest of them. "You sure it isn't too heavy for you?"

She just smiled sweetly and nodded in answer.

At Karl's suggestion, they strapped on the sheaths and wore the knives while in the park, "Just to get a good feel for them, you know?"

Not many other furs came to the north end of the park that day. A noisy group of college students had been in the water when they arrived, and left around two-thirty. Four family groups wandered through at different times. One family of squirrels stopped and visited for a bit while their two young sons played tag in the trees with Emily. While the parents exchanged stories and tidbits, Karl spent nearly half an hour poking through boxes and bags and tubes and whatnot in his truckbox, rearranging and repacking.

The squirrel family had a schedule to keep and couldn't stay all that long. They left around four that afternoon.

However, during their visit, the same older sedan had driven by slowly, three times. The windows were darkly tinted, and Karl noted that it had out-of-state tags.

It was headed up the road toward them now, followed by two others.

The lunch items had long since been put away, and the adults relaxed in collapsible canvas chairs, chatting while Emily played back in the woods. Lee noticed the cars. Pointing to them, he said, "There's that car again. You'd think if those folks wanted to just drive around sight-seeing, they'd use clear glass."

Karl sat up straight and looked at the approaching vehicles for a few seconds, staring hard. He scanned the forest, noting that Emily was well back among the trees, and frowned darkly for a second. Then his features smoothed out and he said, "Cinnamon, would you come with me?" He got up and trotted to the truck.

"What? You need something?"

"Come over here please."

The squirrel followed him to the truck. He opened the front passenger door, flipped on the GPS homing beacon and the silent emergency request signal, and said, "I'd like for you to sit in here for a few minutes."

She looked from him to the truck and back, obviously puzzled. "Why?"

"Please? It's important." He saw that the cars had stopped in a line about twenty-five meters away. He opened the rear door and retrieved a box from the seat, which he tucked under one arm while closing the door again.

She shrugged. "Okay." She climbed in and he shut her door. Then he reached into one of his pockets and activated the truck's _**other**_ security system.

Debbye looked at the cars, then at Karl, then at her husband, and asked, "Would you like to tell me what that's all about?"

"I'm a little curious myself." He got up and padded over to Karl, who had placed the box on the ground, out of sight of the cars. Lee looked over the big fur's shoulder, then reacted quickly, catching the packet Karl tossed to him.

"Put the tunic on. The belt goes around your waist."

He shook out the garment, and turned the belt over, puzzled. "What is it?"

"Shurriken. And an impact shroud."

_An impact shroud?_ "But these things are military-issue only!" Lee unrolled the packet, noting the Velcro straps on the belt, and said, sternly, "I want to know what's going on."

"If my guess is correct, those cars are full of members of the Knights of the Pure Strain."

"_**WHAT?**__"_

"They've been oozing into the state for a few weeks now."

"And just _when_ were you planning to tell _us_ this?" He shrugged into the tunic.

"They might not have shown up at all. I didn't want to spoil your day by alarming you unnecessarily." He passed Lee a slightly larger pack than the first one. "For Debbye."

The doors on each of the cars opened, and fourteen male furs got out. Several had firearms. One of them directed a group of five each to either flank. They spread out and started moving forward.

Debbye zipped over to join the guys behind the truck. "Those furs have _guns_!"

Karl nodded. "I thought they might."

Lee gave his wife the packet from Karl, and fastened his belt in place. She looked into hers, and gasped.

"Listen, I want you two to go get Emily and take her way back into the woods. Your job is to keep her safe." They all looked up into the fringe of the wood where she was happily, and obliviously, playing. "Go now. Quickly."

Debbye slipped into her tunic, put her belt on, and pulled out one of the dozen beautiful throwing knives. Her face had passed from surprise, through incredulity, to determination. "We'll do it." They sprinted toward Emily.

Karl finished transferring several objects from the box to his many pockets. He heard a shout from the assembled furs, and bobbed up for a quick look. Three of the ones in the central group were hoisting their weapons to take aim at his friends.

His movements blindingly fast and mechanically precise, he extracted a weighty sphere some nine centimeters in diameter from one of his pockets, pressed a button on its side, and threw it at the group. Traveling almost as fast as a sling bullet, it hit the ground in front them and detonated.

The report, though loud, was hardly deafening. But a huge, scintillating, blindingly white cloud sprang into being, engulfing the four furs and the lead car. A loud tinkling could be heard a couple of seconds later as the vehicle's windows shattered.

Pandemonium reigned. After five or six seconds, a fur in one of the flanking squads started shooting. Karl shifted into Augmented speed and ran into the woods, dodging in among the trees at better than fifty klicks.

. . .

"Sunuvabitch!"

"Whaddahellwuzzat?"

Shit! They're all down!"

"Frank! Look what that bastard did to Frank!"

And not _just_ to Frank, either. The sparkling cloud dissipated rapidly, exposing the four furs that had been in its way. They were curled up on the bare, frozen earth, rimed in frost, shivering and gasping in obvious anguish.

"_Shit! Shit! Shit! _How the hell'd he do that? Leroy? Are they okay?"

The fox in question scuttled over to the nearest fur and tried to check his pulse, but jerked his paw away and then hopped back out of the affected area in a hurry. "Dam-_nation_! That's cold!" He scrubbed his feet on the ground to try to get them warmed up.

"Hey Luke! Can you hear me?"

No answer.

A tall Rottweiler ran back to the second car and got a tarpaulin out of the trunk. He spread it on the ground beside the fallen furs and used his rifle to roll them over onto it. They were pulled over to the grass beside the cars in this fashion.

"Brummet! You got some EMT trainin'. What's wrong with 'em?"

The weasel checked the victims briefly. Their eyes and the ends of their noses were cracked and bleeding. A fennec fox was missing one of his ears: it had broken off during the move. Every one had severe respiratory distress. None was fully conscious.

He stood and shrugged. "Damfino how, but they look like they've all got a really advanced case of frostbite."

"They gonna be okay?"

"No way to tell for sure. Looks like some of 'em might be blind. Maybe all of 'em. Their eyes don't look good _at all_."

"Dammit, Gary! Luke was in charge, and there he lays! Whaddawe do now?"

Gary, a gray wolf, ground his teeth and said, "We get some payback, that's what." He looked around at the group. "No more games. No fun stuff. We kill 'em, quick as we can. Who ain't got a rifle?"

Three paws shot up.

"Okay, there's one more in Luke's car, and four there on the ground."

"Yeah, once they thaw out," someone muttered.

"Shut the _**fuck**_ up." He pointed his pistol around. "Anybody wanna back out?" After several seconds, he continued, "I didn't think so. Come on." And he marched over to the truck.

. . .

Cinnamon's mind spun rapidly out of her reach.

Right after Karl shut the door, she had tried the knob, but it wouldn't release. She jumped around to the other three doors, but they gave no egress either, so she stuck her face against the window and watched as Karl passed out weapons (!) to the Evanses.

Then she had seen the armed furs approaching, and tried frantically to get the door open.

Then she saw Karl throw a ball at them, and it made a big, white cloud but no sound.

When she turned back to where her friends had been, she saw them disappearing into the woods with Emily. Whipping back to the other side, she saw the cloud vanish, and she saw the results of Karl's attack, and she screamed.

Then one of them started shooting, but still there was no sound.

Now, as the armed ones got closer, all that kept running through her mind was, "_Oh no! Oh no! Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!_ . . . . ."

. . .

Gary called to a well-muscled jaguar and pointed at the truck. "Jimmy, you get that bitch outta there. I wanna know who that big fucker is. Make her tell, I don't care how. Then you can have her."

"Oh, yeah!" Jimmy walked up to the truck, leering at the squirrel's horrified expression. He took the butt of his rifle and slammed it into the driver's side window.

. . .

Cinnamon jerked back with a little scream when the rifle connected. But the window didn't break. It didn't crack. It didn't even sound as if it had been hit. In fact, the impact did nothing to it at all. But it _did_ do something to her view of the scene outside. As when a breeze ruffles the surface of a reflecting pool, ripples ran rapidly across her vision, momentarily distorting the figures. And the fur with the rifle fell over backward.

. . .

"_Shit__!_" Jimmy dropped his rifle and held his paws over his ears as he rolled around on the grass. The other furs jerked around to stare at him, then Gary and some of the others trotted over to him.

"What the hell was that, Jimmy?" A heavy puma reached down and hauled the jaguar to his feet.

"_Shit!_" He shook his head. "Hell if I know, Gord. Damn ears still ringin'."

Gary asked, "What'd you do?"

"Beats hell outta me!" He picked up his rifle and stood, shaking his head again and tapping one side of it. "I just tried knockin' the window in, and it sounded like the damn thing exploded." He walked away, working a finger around in one ear.

The gray wolf's eyes narrowed. "Gordon, Jake, c'm'ere. You got the other high-power stuff, right? Gonna hit the window right there." He raised his weapon and took aim. "On my count, let fly. . . ."

. . .

Cinnamon saw the three furs draw a bead on the glass, and huddled, cringing, on the floorboard.

. . .

". . . Now!"

Three rifles spoke as one. Three high-caliber projectiles hit the glass simultaneously. . . . or tried to.

The sonic storm that ricocheted back on the three furs bowled them over flat. The rest of the Knights yelled, dropped their weapons, and covered their ears, wincing in pain.

And three utterly spent slugs fell to ground beside the truck.

After the reverberations stopped, the furs left standing went over and stood around the three fallen ones. All were _sincerely_ unconscious, and had blood leaking from ears and nostrils.

"Sum_bitch_!" said a thin rat, "What happened?"

Jimmy answered him. "I'll tell you what: same thing as happened to me, only bigger. Damn truck's got some more kinda hellacious security system."

One of them, a civet, knelt and gave them a brief look-over. The rat asked, "Are they dead, Dean?"

He stood, shaking his head. "Naw. Look like they took a helluva lick, but they ain't dead. Probably be sorry about that once they come to, I figure." His muzzle twisted in a wry grimace. "Tell you what, though. Word o' this gets back to Damien, he'll have all our asses in a sling." He pointed out two of the others. "You guys, help me drag these knuckleheads over next to the icicles."

Once that was accomplished, Jimmy asked, "What you think we ought to do now, Dean? Pack 'em up and leave?"

"Like hell. We crawl back to the High Lord Knight with our tails between our legs after half of us getting' shellacked, you'll wish _you'd_ been on the business end of that blast. What I think is, we leave this sucker bait of a truck the hell alone for now. That big fur's gotta have some kinda control gadget on him. We find him, kill him, and take it, then we can get her." He jerked a thumb at the truck. "Then we get rid of the other witnesses, get this over with and _then_ get the fuck outta here." And he hefted his rifle and moved off toward the trees. "Blast anything that moves."

. . .

Cinnamon heard nothing, felt nothing. That weird shimmering effect happened again, much more pronounced this time. _What are they waiting for?_ She wasn't keen to stick her head up into the line of fire to find out what was going on. But after several minutes she could stand it no longer and ventured a peek.

The three furs that had aimed at her were stretched out on the ground beside the four who had been in the way of Karl's bomb, their companions nowhere to be seen.

She had no clue about what had happened, but apparently she was safe for the time being. She turned her attention to the dashboard computer. _There's gotta be some way to get out of here._

##


	9. Chapter 3 A Slight Detour Part D

_*Author's Note: As a soundtrack for this section, I suggest Pat Benatar's "Invincible".*_

. . .

. . .

_**Chapter Three – A Slight Detour – Part D**_

##

_** Sunday 18 September 2016, 4:55pm ** _

"Let me 'lone!"

"We have to keep moving, Emily."

"_Where's_ my _Mommy_?"

Lee sighed. The youngster had asked that question at least thirty times, perhaps in the hope that the answer would change. "She's in Mr. Karl's truck. She's fine. We'll see her soon."

"Wanna see my Mommy _now_!"

The cat was teetering on the edge of losing his temper with the little girl. "Well you can't, so you'll just have to put up with us for the time being!"

They'd been traveling some fifteen minutes since Karl had caught up to them. He gave them directions to the Monroe Ranger Cabin and a quick idea of how the land lay over the three klicks they'd have to negotiate, and said he'd meet them at the ranger station. Then he melted back into the trees.

All sounds of pursuit had vanished shortly after that, but they kept on plugging. It would be another fifteen minutes or so before they reached their destination, and while the fine blades they carried gave them a measure of confidence, both realized that they would be no contest against rifles at a distance.

They traveled in silence for most of a minute, giving Lee the hope that Emily had finally acquiesced to the reality of the situation, when she piped up, "I gotta go."

"Go where, child?"

"No! I gotta _go_!"

"Oh. _That_ go." He looked back and motioned to his wife, a dozen paces behind them. She'd taken rear-guard position since her hearing was more acute than his. She trotted up to them, a question on her face.

Lee nodded at the girl. "She's gotta go."

"Ah. Okay, sweetie, come over here." Debbye indicated a thick stand of brush at the base of a tall beech. "You can go around behind here. But be as quick as you can. We haven't much time."

Emily slipped into the small thicket, and Lee and Debbye could hear some thrashing as she got settled, then nothing. After about thirty seconds Debbye called in a low voice, "You finished yet?"

No answer.

They looked at each other. Lee said, "You don't think . . . ?"

They darted around both sides of the brush: no Emily. Wildly, they searched the area, but after half-a-minute Lee spotted her in the canopy. She was almost out of sight, back in the direction they'd already come, and making good time.

"_Oh, for cryin' out loud!"_ Lee thought. He called to his wife and pointed. They took off.

##

With the exception of Jimmy, who was busy doing a little first aid on himself, the rest of the Knights trooped through the forest with grim determination. As far as the advance team had been concerned, the entire bunch of picnickers (excluding the red squirrel) were scumbreds. And the red squirrel had spawned the little breed, so she was just as guilty. They needed to die.

Dean had put Leroy out front to track. As a fox, his nose was the most sensitive in the group. He found the spoor easily enough and followed it for about a minute, but then it forked. He stopped and asked, "Hey, Dean! You wanna go after the big guy first or the other three?"

The civet frowned. "They split up?"

"Yep."

He thought for a few moments and said, "I'd say the big one is the more dangerous. He might have some more of those weird bombs. Probably not, or he woulda used 'em, but you never know. So we ought to take him out first. But we can't lose the others, either." He looked around at the other five. "Brummet, think you can follow three scumbreds in a hurry?"

The weasel grinned. "You know it, bro."

Dave spoke up. "I'm with Brummet." He was also a fox, but had lost most of his sense of smell to a bad bout of influenza the year before.

"Why?" asked Dean.

"Scumbred squirrel that looked a good bit like that one broke up my parents' marriage. Dad ran off with her. Mom never got over it."

Dean shrugged. "Personal reasons are okay by me. Just don't let it slow you down when it comes time for the kill."

"Don't worry." They took off through the light underbrush, headed southeast.

Leroy led the others off slightly west of south, fairly straight toward Camel's Hump Mountain. The terrain quickly got unfriendly. They slowed down, but kept doggedly on.

. . .

Karl had been in Augmented speed for close to eleven minutes, and had made use of the last six to set up his trap. He'd been sure to leave an obvious trail, and just as sure to maximize his pursuers' difficulty in following him by picking as his path the most gosh-awful bunch of ravines, gullies, and cliffs he could find.

He finished setting up the micro-projector at the dead end of the short defile, did a quick last check of the camera, and hopped the three meters up to the edge, sliding out of Augment as he trotted some twenty meters away into the dense growth.

He hadn't long to wait. In less than two minutes he detected the group. As he had anticipated, several of them had followed him. But then he frowned: there were only four. He'd calculated that they would send one after the Evanses and the rest would come his way. If more of them were on the other trail, he'd have to wrap this up quickly and go help. He flipped on the transmitter and struck his pose.

The Knights entered the mouth of the defile, jogging quickly toward the end, and pulled up sharp when Karl stepped out from behind a tree. He stood calmly, facing them with his arms crossed, and studied them for a few seconds before giving them his ultimatum. "Throw your weapons up to the rim of the gully and lie face-down on the ground. Now."

The civet motioned to the others and they all aimed at the big fur. He said, "You don't even pull a good bluff, scumbreed. Time to die."

"This is your final warning. Get rid of your weapons and you won't be physically harmed. Persist in this madness, and you suffer the consequences."

"Fire!"

The narrow space magnified the rifles' reports, and activated the four sonic switches placed strategically around the furs. With a loud _**pop**_ four Claymores went off. But they didn't spray shrapnel. It looked more like silly-string.

Each bomb threw out dozens of thick, white strands, blanketing the area where the four furs stood. They screamed and thrashed, and two of them managed to get off another shot at the wolverine, but he continued to stand there and watch, shaking his head slightly.

"That, me buckos, was foolish."

The strands were intensely sticky, and as far as the four in the web were concerned, unbreakable. They were quickly immobilized. The highly reactive compound set up rapidly on contact with the air, and in a quarter of a minute all movement had ceased. Then the dense web began, ever so slowly, to contract.

Karl turned off the projector, causing his holographic image in the defile to wink out. He ran over and jumped in next to the unfortunate quartet, checking the trap for security, and shortly nodding to himself. He knew the substance would shrink about eight or nine percent. They could breathe, without too much difficulty, but that was about all.

"Good. Looks like you won't be going anywhere for a while. Make yourselves comfortable. I'll be back later." And he took off, headed east. _If they haven't made it to the Ranger station yet, I'll have to figure a vector to meet them head-on. _He slipped back into Augment, kicking his speed up to about fifty klicks.

. . .

Brummet, indeed, had no trouble tracking the three furs. He and Dave were able to move at a good, steady jog most of the time. Naturally, their attention was focused ahead, so it is understandable that they noticed Lee and Debbye headed toward them, and entirely missed the squirrel child as she passed by overhead.

The Evanses, on the other paw, were trying to track Emily, and although they did their best to keep an eye out for their pursuers, they failed to note the weasel and fox as they ducked behind two trees. The couple _had_ taken the precaution of drawing their blades, though.

Brummet listened carefully. He had to, since their prey weren't making much noise. When he thought he had their location pegged, he gave Dave a signal, swung out from behind the tree and fired.

The first one in his sights was the female, and he got her low in the gut. She doubled over and dropped. The male screamed her name and turned toward Brummet, snarling. Dave shot at him, but missed. The weasel got off a second shot, but the cat used his blade to deflect the bullet, then made a prodigious leap toward his mate, dropped into the underbrush, and disappeared.

Brummet grinned. "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty." He was in control now. The cat had no firearms. It was only a matter of time. He and Dave ambled slowly over toward the spot where he'd dropped the squirrel. If she _was_ still alive, he'd finish her off. And make the cat watch while he did it.

. . .

Lee snaked the remaining few meters to his wife's side. "Debbye! You okay?"

"Hit . . . the belt. Just . . . knocked the wind . . . out of me." He took a quick look at her: the slug was buried in the fabric, and had struck one of the throwing knives. The impact shroud had spread the force of the hit over a much wider surface, but still, a high-power rifle packs a heck of a jolt.

His voice grim, he said, "Let me borrow this." He traded blades with her, noting that while the bullet had left a smear of lead on his where he'd used it as a shield, it was still straight and completely undamaged. "Yours has more surface area."

He pulled out a pair of shurriken and stood to face their attackers.

They drew down on him and the fox called, "Any last words, scumbreed?"

In answer, Lee's right arm flickered out. One razor-edged octagon split the fox's hyoid bone and buried itself in his fifth cervical vertebra, crushing the spinal cord. The other neatly bisected his left eye, lodging in the upper occipital region of his skull and producing a small bump on the back of his head. He fell over onto his back, dead before he hit the ground. There was hardly any blood.

The weasel yelled and fired, but Lee was no longer in front of him. His movements sinuous and hellishly fast, he worked his way closer to the weasel, dodging the shots, and deflecting a couple of them with Debbye's short sword. The final leap brought him in range, and the blade flashed down. It halved the rifle where the stock joined the barrel, and two fingers from the weasel's right paw fell to the forest floor.

The injured fur shrieked and backpedaled, holding the bloody paw against his chest under his left arm.

Lee stood at guard position and regarded the other fur coldly, his ears plastered flat. "You may find this hard to believe, but I regret having to kill your companion. Nor do I wish to kill you."

A ragged stream of curses was his only answer. The weasel yanked a bowie knife out of a sheath on his hip and threw it at Lee, who nipped it neatly out of the air, and sent it thudding into the earth at the weasel's feet.

Baring his fangs, the weasel wrenched the knife out of the ground, screamed and ran at Lee.

Lee's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "Have it your way." Blazing into a tempest of sharp, whirling edges, he caught the weasel's undamaged arm, sliced through the flesh at the armpit to the bone, broke the elbow while gutting him with his own knife, and finished the form with a slash to the side of the neck that came within a couple of centimeters of decapitating him. The corpse crumpled in a heap.

Lee backed off, muttering, "Your choice, your fate." He snicked off a piece of the weasel's shirt with which to wipe his blade, and hurried back over to Debbye. She had sat up to watch the climax, studying Lee's moves with passionate approval.

He lent her a paw to help her stand. "Feeling better?"

"Yes, now that I have my breath back." She caught him in a fierce embrace, pulled his face down to hers, and kissed him resoundingly.

"What was that for? Not that I'm complaining."

"For being you. For being really, really good at what you do. For winning." She kissed him again. "I'm just awfully proud of you right now."

He returned her kiss, and gave her another one. "Your change, my lady," he said, with a grin.

She took his paw and they continued after Emily, accelerating to a fast jog, blades at the ready. If there were more foes between them and the picnic site, she could be in serious trouble.

. . .

Jimmy had stepped on a nettle shortly after entering the woods. The others went ahead without him, and told him to catch up when he could.

He'd leaned his rifle up against a tree while he sat for several minutes with his foot propped on the other knee, carefully extracting the last of the tiny, stinging stickers. He heard a couple of shots in the distance and cursed softly over missing the fun. But now his ears pricked up when he heard a periodic swishing growing louder. Peering cautiously around the base of the tree, he spotted the little scumbred squirrel-thing moving through the branches.

Quickly, he brought his rifle around and sighted on her. Her movements were very fast, and more than a little unpredictable, but Jimmy knew his weapon. He led her, drew a breath, let half of it go, and pulled the trigger.

. . .

Emily's thoughts centered on one thing, and one only: get to Mommy. She and her mother were a team, a unit. Mommy was always there, always knew the right answer, always took care of her. Mommy would know what to do. Emily liked the stripey cat and the pretty squirrel, but she _trusted_ her mother. She jumped to the next tree, a spreading maple, and caught the end of the branch. It was a little thinner than she liked, and dipped her down suddenly.

That was when the thunder clapped, and something stung her paw and broke the branch.

She fell to the ground, some five meters below, and lay there, stunned.

. . .

He felt an unfamiliar vibration as the weapon jumped in his paws, leaving them stinging a little._ Doesn't matter. Got her anyway._ Jimmy stood, tucked the rifle under his arm, and limped over to where the girl lay. But when still several steps away, he saw that he'd only nicked her paw. Frowning, he chambered another round and aimed at her stomach. _Sure as hell can't miss from here._ He pulled the trigger.

_Flatch._

"Damn!" He checked the mechanism to see where it had jammed. That was when he saw the crack in the stock, right behind the grip. He cursed again, much louder. Probably happened when he hit the truck window. Then the girl sat up and looked at him, gasped, and jumped to her feet. But she was still woozy from her fall and he was able to catch her.

"Fine. If I can't kill you with a bullet, I'll kill you with my bare paws." So saying, he put both of them around her slender neck and started squeezing.

Emily's eyes bulged. She tried clawing the backs of his arms, but he only grinned at her. She struggled wildly for a few seconds, trying to work her paws in between his fingers and her neck. He just increased the pressure. He had no intention of making her death anything but slow and painful. Swiftly, she slipped a paw into her pocket and pulled out the bottle of hot sauce. She remembered what Mr. Karl had said about getting it in her eyes. Twisting off the lid, she flung a good, big splash of it into the jaguar's face. Unfortunately (for him) he gasped. It was not the wisest move.

He dropped her. Then he curled up, fell to the ground and screamed. A double-dozen scorpions were devouring his muzzle from the inside. His eyes were two flaming balls of nuclear pain. His claws gouged deep furrows in the flesh of his face trying to rake the stuff off, but the infusion of capsicum extract into the open scratches only intensified the agony.

Emily backed away, panting, and watched. She didn't know who this fur was, but he obviously was not a nice guy. She went over to his rifle, picked up the heavy thing and, wielding it like a club, brought the stock down on the back of the jaguar's head. She was small for her age, but the rifle was long and massive and built up a good bit of momentum simply using gravity.

His thrashing around slowed markedly, but since he was still moving, she hit him twice more. He stopped moving after that, but she hit him a few more times, just for good measure.

She decided to take the rifle with her, although she had no clue how it worked. But, she reasoned, if she had it, then he couldn't use it, and that was a good thing.

Her paw hurt too much to travel through the trees, so she trudged off toward the picnic site on foot, sucking at the nicked place on her wrist, the butt of the rifle leaving a snaky trail behind her. Mommy shouldn't be too much farther.

. . .

Debbye caught first sight of the unconscious jaguar and pointed out his position to Lee. They kept a constant vigil around the perimeter to make sure this wasn't a trap. But he truly was 'out', and if the size of the lumps on his head gave any indication, he wouldn't be coming around for a couple of hours, minimum.

"What's that all over his face?"

Lee touched the orange goop and gave it a cautious sniff, wrinkling his nose and blinking as he rubbed it off on the grass. "It's one of those hot sauces Karl had!"

". . . But . . . how did it get here?"

"You got me. Let's go."

"Yeah. This is getting weirder by the minute."

In another ninety seconds they came in sight of the picnic area. Emily was sitting on the ground beside the truck, holding her ears and crying. They ran over to her and Debbye gathered her into her arms.

"What's wrong, honey?"

"Mommy's stuck! Twuck hurt my ears!" She turned pleading eyes on the squirrel. "Pwease get Mommy out?"

Debbye looked up and saw Cinnamon's face against the window. The red squirrel was saying something, but she couldn't hear a thing.

A State Trooper's cruiser pulled up just then, lights flashing. It stopped at the end of the short row of cars. Two non-descript felines emerged and surveyed the scene: seven unconscious furs lying on the grass, and two obviously armed furs standing with a crying child beside a truck. They drew their side arms and called, "Place your weapons on the ground, put your paws on your head and move away from the truck."

Lee gave Debbye a wry smile. "Having fun yet, dear one?"

She shook her head ruefully as she unbuckled the belt of throwing knives. "Mr. Luscus owes us big-time for this one."

They marched over to the officers.

. . .

The rangers at Monroe station had no word of any trio of furs, so Karl took off toward the picnic site, accelerating to sixty klicks in spots. He broke the edge of the woods as one of the officers was examining his truck, Emily following him like a duckling and crying piteously. He saw Lee and Debbye standing with the other one, and gesticulating forcefully. He surreptitiously deactivated the hypersonic defense system, and trotted over to the Trooper. His nametag read 'P. Fellis'.

"Good evening, Sergeant Fellis."

The cat looked up at him and took an involuntary step backwards, whipping out his pistol. "Hold it. Who are you?"

"My name is Karl Luscus. This is my truck." He opened the door, and Cinnamon jumped out and scooped up her daughter, both of them laughing and crying. "And these are my friends."

Cinnamon rounded on him. "Fine way to treat your friends! I 'bout went out of my mind with worry, not knowing what happened to all of you!" She picked Emily up, holding her close, and smoothed her wild headfur down.

"At the time it was the only viable option for keeping you safe. I would have put Emily in there as well, but she was too far away for me to fetch her back with a reasonable margin of safety."

Cinnamon pointed at the furs on the ground. "Who _are_ those jerks?"

"Species purists. Specifically, Knights of the Pure Strain."

The sergeant had been looking back and forth between them as they spoke, and holstered his side arm when he heard that. "Do you know that for a fact?"

Karl shook his head. "Not one hundred percent positive, but it is the most likely explanation. I do know that the organization is trying to recruit new members in this state, and that over two thousand of the current members are here. They are planning something fairly big and showy, and planning to do it soon. This group attacked us, and we retaliated."

Sergeant Fellis gave the seven unconscious ones a measured look. "Did a pretty fair job."

"We were forced into using extreme measures. By the way, there are more of them in the woods."

"What? How many?"

"There were fourteen, total. Besides these, I immobilized four. There is another unconscious one some hundred-fifty meters into the woods. And there are two dead ones about a klick from here."

"Dead? Did you kill them?"

"No. But they were following my friends, intent on killing them, and I imagine it came down to kill or be killed. You should ask them." He pointed at the Evanses, who were headed in their direction with the other officer.

The trooper said, "Paul, these two claim to have run afoul of a couple of armed purists back in the woods, and had to kill them to protect themselves."

Lee said, "I can show you right where they are. We left the scene as-is so you can see the rifles and so on."

The sergeant turned back to Karl. "Where are the ones you caught?"

"Quite a way from here, I'm afraid. More than half-way up the side of Camel's Hump."

"And they are _not_ dead, I take it?"

"Correct. But they aren't going anywhere. You'll have to get someone to shave them in order to get them out of the bonds I used."

"_Shave_ them?"

Karl nodded. "They're all glued together."

"Ah-huh." The sergeant looked over at his partner. "You want to call for some backup on this, George?"

"Roger. Since that memo from the AG came out, he'll want to know about it, too."

"Better get on the horn." He looked at the assembled furs. "You folks stay put. We have a lot of questions for you."

Debbye looked at Lee and sighed deeply. "I was afraid of that."

**End of Chapter Three.**


	10. Interlude 2

**Interlude #2**

. . .

. . .

Wendy was busy at the sink, but sensed my presence and wheeled around, knife at the ready. She stared at me for a few seconds, then said, "Mac? Is that _you_?"

_**None other.**_

"But – but how? . . ."

How did I get here? I'd think that would be obvious. If you can use the Portal, why shouldn't I be able to do the same?

"But you're a Writer!"

_**Your point?**_

"Writers don't do that!"

_**Says who? Eric does it.**_

"That's different. He's a cartoonist. Most of the cartoonists have represented themselves in their own strips at one time or another."

_**Well, Chris actually is his main character. He's in his Story all the time. Well, most of the time. Ditto with Josh and Rava. So it isn't like I don't have a precedent.**_

She didn't say anything for a moment, but she did, to my relief, put the knife back on the counter. She walked over closer and scanned me up and down. "You sure do look different as a fur."

**_I expect so. You look very different when you pop through to the other side. But you haven't been by in a few days, so I thought I'd come find out why._**

She shuddered. "It just got too uncomfortable. Too weird. It feels strange to walk on my whole foot, and even those funny 'shoe' things with high backs don't really help. I'm off-balance without my tail. And I don't know _how_ you manage with no fur. It feels like I'm wet all the time, and every little draft in the room makes me shiver."

**_You get used to it. That's why we wear clothes._**

"Well so do we."

_**Yeah, and they rub my fur the wrong way, too. How do **__**you**__** put up with **__**that**__**?**_

She grinned at me. "You get used to it. Besides, most of us wear fairly loose clothing unless the situation warrants something else." She reached out a hesitant paw and touched my arm. "Your fur pattern is . . . umm . . . unique. What species are you supposed to be?"

**_I'm a mutt. A mongrel, if you will. Sort of as a reflection of my heritage on the other side. My background includes Irish Wolfhound, badger, poodle, red wolf, lynx, and pine martin._**

She raised an eyebrow high. "I didn't think a crossbreeding like that would work. Somebody should have turned up sterile."

**_Most likely would have, if I weren't presenting as a Translation. You, on the other paw, look like a native of County Cork in my world._**

"Oh, really? Why is that?"

**_Your eyes change to green. Your hair – excuse me, your headfur – stays the same shade of deep red. Your skin is exceedingly fair. You could have stepped out of an ad for Killian's Red._**

"Skin." She shivered again and shook her head. "I just can't deal with it."

_**So that's the only reason you stopped coming by?**_

She _huffed_ at me. "That and the fact that you keep me so damned busy. Do you have any idea what it's like trying to run this place with just one employee? And Karl took me off for two days traipsing all over the devil's half-acre, so now I'm even farther behind. When am I gonna get some more help?"

**_That would be telling._**

She shook a finger in my face. "You don't have to act so smug, Mr. Omniscient.

_**Sorry.** [ I couldn't help grinning. ]_

"Speaking of Karl, what's up with him? Does he like me or doesn't he?"

**_I thought he made that pretty plain. Yes, he likes you. A lot._**

"Well, then, what's he afraid of? I know I remind him of his dead girlfriend, but come on! She _is_ dead, and it _was_ nine years ago."

**_He's a complex individual, and he still has some issues to work through. Give him a little more time._**

"Humph. Well. Tell you what. He's an interesting character, and a pretty good friend, but I'm looking for more than that. If he doesn't make a move soon, I will. And if he can't take it, that's just too bad. I'm not getting any younger, exercise or no exercise, and I have needs, too."

**_I'm sure he understands that._**

"He's not a virgin, is he? That would help explain why he's so shy."

**_No. Not to put too much of a point on the issue, but I'd have to say, 'Not hardly.'_**

"Ouch."

**_I beg your pardon. You might ask him about that. It could get him to open up a little. You two haven't really talked that much about each other's past._**

"Oh, right! The last time I started that it blew up in my face. He just about closed down."

**_If you stay off that topic and lead him to other aspects of his life, I'm sure you'll have a better success rate._**

"Hmm. We'll see." She walked over to the stove and checked the contents of a small pot. "You got time to stay for lunch? It's just chicken soup and crackers, but you're welcome to it."

**_Ever the gracious hostess. Thanks, I'd like that. Your chicken soup beats most folks' filet mignon._**

"Flatterer. By the way, Ellen's gonna be by this afternoon to help me get ready for the supper crowd. Does that pose a problem?"

_**No. Why should it?**_

"Well . . . I didn't know if you'd be . . . comfortable with her."

**_Why would I not? I came up with her._**

"Yeah. Guess that makes sense. Sabrina's cool with Eric, but as I said before, he shows up in his strip a good bit. I just didn't know if you'd want to reveal yourself as a fur. It's a little odd."

**_We've met._**

"Oh. Okay. I didn't know." She stirred the soup for a moment. "So, then, I guess she's aware that you're the Writer?"

**_She is._**

"Oh. Well, good." She got a couple of bowls out and set the table.

_**Wendy?**_

"Yes?"

_**Do you like it here?**_

"Oh, yes! You mean this area? Or the house?"

**_Both, really._**

"Yes, to both. As far as that goes, the furs around here are just great! Elly and Amelie and Cinnamon and Siobhan and Ellen have been wonderful. You know they organized a cleaning bee for me, don't you?"

**_Right. You looked like you could use the help._**

"Boy, you got that right. That old saw about many paws making light work is right on target. Oh, and there's Quinn. He's a treasure. And the country is beautiful, and I really, really love my daily decompression on the rear porch. Don't know how I got by without it all those years."

**_Most people don't realize how much pressure they are under on a daily basis. I'm glad you figured it out._**

"Thanks. And the house is great, too. One of these days I'm gonna take the time to do a thorough search for all the secret passages. I only found nine, and I'm _sure_ there were more. The number twelve keeps floating around my mind."

**_I wish you luck in that endeavor._**

She giggled. "I'll just bet." Then she got an '_oh yeah_' look on her face and asked, "What's up with the ferals?"

_**What do you mean?**_

"I mean, where are you going with that? It weirds me out every time he shows up."

_**Every**__** time? All both of them?**_

She stuck out her tongue at me. "Why'd you put him in the story?"

_**You get right to the point, don't you?**_

"That's what it takes if I want a straight answer out of you."

**_I had several reasons. I hadn't seen it done before, at least not this way. I liked the effect. It will be very useful later in the story, in a number of instances. It's a very malleable concept._**

"So you didn't do it just to be weird?"

**_Wendy, I don't do anything just to 'be weird' as you put it. I don't have to. That's simply who I am. I've been considered a representative of the fringe most of my life. Being misunderstood is just another aspect of existence._**

"Huh. Okay. I guess I can live with that."

_**So you don't miss your old life in Pennsylvania, then?**_

"Huh? Oh, I miss pieces of it. I miss Sabrina and Chris and their kids. I miss Teresa. And Jenna. But then, Jenna hadn't been by for . . . . heck, I guess it had been over a year. I do miss my time at the YMCA. Haven't had any further instruction since I moved up here."

**_I know you work out upstairs every day. Would you like to pick that up again? Martial arts instruction, I mean?_**

"Well sure. It's fun. And mighty useful. If I hadn't been trained with a knife, Jerry could have killed me!"

**_True, true. That's something else you might ask Karl about._**

"Oh, is he into martial arts?"

**_You could say that._**

"Cool. I'll talk to him about that, then."

**_Great. This soup smells wonderful._**

"Thanks." She smiled up at me as I held her chair for her. "You planning to stay here the rest of the day?"

**_I might as well. I've never actually been to Vermont, you know._**

She stared at me. "You're kidding."

**_Honest. I got a look at the northern border once, from across the St. Lawrence, but that's all. So now that I'm here, I'd like to take a walk by the creek. I could use some relaxation myself._**

"Heh. Knock yourself out, then. You know which way it is?"

**_I do_**.

She thought that over a second and grinned. "Yeah, you would, wouldn't you?"

_**There are lots of advantages to being the **__**Writer**__**.**_

She nodded, sipping her soup. "I suppose so."

After we finished, she cleared the table and I headed for the door. She asked, "You'll be back after while?"

**_Yes. I just want to look at the creek. I'll be back about the same time that Ellen shows up._**

"When will you know . . . Oh. Right. Never mind." She watched as I walked off into the woods, muttering to herself, "That is one odd bird." She started pulling out the ingredients for supper.


	11. Chapter 4 Two Steps Forward  Part A

_*Author's Note: Special thanks go to Evan Mayerle for his aid in providing technical information on various items in this chapter, and to Khalil Sheffield for his assistance in establishing historical accuracy for the Knights.*_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**Chapter Four– Two Steps Forward . . . .**_

**It is in our true nature to learn from mistakes, not from example. **

_**-Fred Hoyle**_

##

_** Sunday 18 September 2016, 11:38pm ** _

The best way to describe Toby Scrugg, in a word, is 'unimaginative'. He was a pleasant enough fellow, solid, dependable, a confirmed bachelor of fifty-three. His paperwork, though perhaps not a paragon of orthography, was never late. Whenever he had a spare minute, he worked out in the small gym they kept at the jail, the result being that, despite his amply rotund figure, he currently held the Sheriffs' Association state-wide title for the bench-press, Senior division. He knew a great many of the natives in the county on a first name basis. Not friends, exactly, but certainly acquaintances. And he never complained about working graveyard. Actually, since he tended to be something of a night-owl, he preferred the late watches (it meant he didn't have to get up early). He made a reasonably good deputy, under normal circumstances, as long as the situation required little in the way of intuitive thought.

So he may be excused for his lack of foresight in the events of this night.

He was thumbing through the latest issue of _Newsweek_ (his window to the world, along with two or three tabloids) when a flurry of frantic knocking on the jail's front door disturbed the peace. He dropped the paper to the desk and hurried over to the lobby.

The sheriff had equipped the door with a peep hole, and the entrance was kept well-lit, so Toby could clearly see the two furs outside. Evenings had been nippy lately, and the temperature hovered around seven or eight Celsius, which fact made their obvious plight that much worse. Neither had a jacket. The fox supported a bobcat, who had obviously been on the receiving end of a beating: his shirt was badly torn, one eye was swollen shut, and he was covered with blood. He seemed barely more than conscious. The fox doing the supporting was shouting to be let inside, and kept looking back over his shoulder fearfully.

The stolid beaver had never been put in this position before. He recalled something from the rule book about reporting odd situations to the sheriff, but in his opinion this was an emergency. Surely there was no time to lose. He had to get these two to safety before their attackers found them again. He unlocked the door.

"Thank you! Oh, thank you, officer!" said the fox, as they stumbled inside. "I don't know how we would have gotten that door open if you'd had any brains." And he gave the officer an evil grin.

Toby frowned. "What? What are you . . ."

The bobcat pulled a pistol from behind his back, shoved it into the deputy's abdomen, and pulled the trigger twice. Toby fell to the floor and lay still.

The cat grinned at his companion. "What a fuckin' moron."

The fox merely nodded as he pulled out a small, focused-beam transmitter and pressed a button on its face. "Get the keys, Renny."

Renny stuck the pistol back into his waistband and searched the beaver briefly. A quick jingling indicating success, he stood and nodded toward the building's innards. "Ready, Marc?"

"Lead on." He followed the bobcat into the office and through the small transfer room to the cellblock, where they both pulled up short.

Marc looked over at his companion. "Crap. What we gonna tell Red Jack?"

Renny shook his head slowly. "Beats hell outta me. Better think up something good, though."

The fox merely nodded as they both stared at the four very empty cells.

##

_** Monday 19 September 2016, 11:45am ** _

A thorough investigation of everyone involved is standard procedure in assault cases that result in a death, regardless of whether the dead fur was instigator or target.

Debbye was no sort of mystery at all. The detectives had shortly found out everything worth knowing about her life to this point. And as it turned out, her background check yielded one tidbit that Michael Truefoot found extremely interesting: he had worked with her mother in the Ohio Attorney General's office in the late nineties. Linda Squirrel had, in fact, been instrumental in giving him an 'in' to the AG himself, as she was one of his direct reports and, in her capacity as the office manager, occasionally organized his schedule for him.

But the first time the State Law Enforcement Division tried to run a background check on Lee, they came up pretty much empty-pawed.

'Classified'. 'Restricted Access'. 'Confidential'. And he had a **_Federal_ **concealed-carry permit.

Between that, and the esoteric armaments the couple had on them when the troopers arrived, Michael had begun to wonder if he had some sort of secret agent on his paws. But Lee was very forthcoming with most of the information they lacked (what of it he could reasonably divulge) and**,** when the Attorney General found out he was in charge of a major special-projects operation for the Department of Defense, his questions stopped.

Lee and Debbye had been cloistered in his office for close to two hours when the news of the attempted jailbreak reached them. Michael's immediate reaction had been to stick them in protective custody, but the couple had talked him out of that by pointing out that the Knights had admitted that they had no idea exactly _who_ they had planned to attack, only that they were searching for 'scumbreeds' and thought they'd run into a nest of them. Several of the captured purists had shown a marked inclination to run off at the mouth, bragging about how they were going to 'clean up' the state. Two of them had flatly refused to believe that either Lee or Karl could be anything but hybrids.

Not the sharpest quills on the porcupine.

There would be an official inquest on the following Monday, and they were going to be obliged to stick around for it. To ease his own mind, Michael assigned two bodyguards apiece to Lee and Debbye, with instructions to stick to the cat and squirrel like Rustoleum for the duration of their stay in Vermont. The Evanses weren't too happy with the situation, but decided to humor him for the time being. He attempted to mollify them somewhat by issuing each one a nine-millimeter Glock and a sufficiency of ammunition, after he found out that they also were expert with pistols.

Lee looked the weapon over, broke it down and put it back together. "Cute."

Michael raised an eyebrow. " 'Cute'? What's that supposed to mean?"

Lee gave a slight wave of the paw. "I'm used to something a bit more powerful. That's all."

"Oh? How much more powerful?"

"My preference is a forty-five. I own pistols in both .45ACP and .45Magnum."

"I see." He paused in thought for a bit, then said, "The state legislature limits us to nine millimeter, but we've got some 'specials' in 9 X 23 for when we need something with more 'knockdown power'."

"Ah-huh. Same energy level as a .45ACP?"

"I'm pretty sure it's in that neighborhood."

"Can I get them in hollow-point?"

There went that eyebrow again. "Why?"

"Mr. Truefoot, if I have an actual need to use one of these," and here he hefted the pawgun, "I want the outcome to be swift and very one-sided. When it comes to protecting my wife from someone who wants to kill her, I am no one's gentlefur."

"As I'm sure you'll remember," put in Debbye, "if you were in Columbus during the summer of 2000."

He looked surprised. "Why? What happened in the summer of 2000?"

Lee pursed his lips. "We had a small problem with an abduction and a hostage situation."

Debbye nodded. "He came and found me; then he got me out."

"Really." The bear drummed his fingers on the desk. "I was out of the country, working at Scotland Yard, from March through December. Barely made it home for Christmas. Then I plunged right into that Taft Becton mass-murder."

"Oh!" exclaimed Debbye. "I do remember that!"

"Worked on that for close to three months. We made the arrest on Saint Patrick's Day, if I recall correctly. Then I transferred to New York and worked there until 2011. Been in this position for the last five years." He gave the couple a good study for several seconds. "But now that you mention it, I do remember looking over the file covering your abduction. I didn't make the connection until just this second."

"So, then," commented Lee, "given the situation with the purists, you understand why I'd like to maximize my take-down potential?"

"Sure." Michael looked him in the eye for a moment, scratched behind one ear briefly, and shrugged. "I have no problem with that. Let me see what I can do."

"We'd appreciate it."

Michael looked at Debbye. "How about you? Any special mods you want to make?"

"No, thanks. I'm happy with this."

"Great."

Karl, flanked by several officers, had disappeared down a different corridor in the building, and still hadn't surfaced. The Attorney General let them know that the big wolverine had done a great deal of investigation into the activities of the Knights, and was turning over everything he'd dug up. "It will take some time. He'll be with us all day, at the least, so you may as well go back to the Inn when we finish up here. And don't worry: we'll keep you updated on how officer Scrugg is doing."

Lee said, "I think it's nothing short of miraculous that he lived at all. Most furs wouldn't have."

The bear shrugged noncommittally. "Perhaps. When I found out he was a beaver, and hadn't been killed outright, I wasn't too worried. Most folks aren't aware of this fact, but beavers don't die easily. They have incredible constitutions. Besides, Deputy Scrugg seems to be pretty well-padded there, and he _is_ very muscular, though he doesn't look it. We'll just have to wait and see what the ICU has to say. 'Guarded but stable' was the last word we had."

He leaned over his desk and crossed his arms. "It's a good thing we decided to move those five Knights we had there to a maximum-security facility night before last. The more of them we can keep off the streets, the better. Ditto with the four that attacked you at the restaurant, although two of them will be in the hospital for a while longer." He paused for a few seconds, and said, "You _sure_ I can't offer you accommodations here? Ms. Jones and her daughter give every indication of being pleased with our set-up. It really isn't that bad, and it's only for a week."

Lee said, "Please don't worry about us. I think we've given ample evidence that we can take care of ourselves." He grimaced and shook his head. "I've been dealing with these . . . these _idiots_ for a good quarter-century, ever since college. It's the same old blather."

Michael shook his heavy head decisively. "The rhetoric may be the same, but the groups themselves most definitely are _not_. Not the Knights. The original core sect, the Purist Fraternal Order, has splintered half a dozen times in the last twelve years, either from divisions within or because some of them wanted to dissociate their group from the larger organization, or to avoid bad press."

He went over to a filing cabinet and pulled out a thick folder. Spreading it open on the table, he called their attention to the photograph on the first page. "Here is a shot of the original PFO colors, circa nineteen ninety." It showed a shield-shaped emblem, divided diagonally, the upper portion in blue, the lower in white. A red paw mark was centered in the white area, and a white star in the blue. A gold-colored sword stood behind it, pointing straight up in the center of the shield.

Lee said, "I take it these symbols mean something?"

The bear shrugged. "Interpretations vary, as far as I can tell. I've heard several stories." He snickered. "Tell you one thing, though. Whoever thought it up didn't know much about heraldry."

"Is that right?"

"Oh, yeah. You know how stuck on pure bloodlines these morons are?"

"Well, sure. It's pivotal to their entire system."

"Okay, you see this diagonal division? If you were actually holding it in front of you like a shield, it goes from upper left to lower right."

"Yes. I see that. So?"

"It _should_ go from upper right to lower left."

Lee got a quizzical look on his face. "Mind telling me why?"

The bear grinned. "One of the standard marks in heraldry, the 'honorable ordinaries' as they are known, is called the _bend_. It is basically a wide stripe that runs from dexter chief to sinister base."

"Whoa! Whoa! Dex _which_?"

"Sorry. The right side is dexter, the left is sinister. Chief is the top and base is the bottom."

Debbye giggled. "It sounds like you're talking in code."

"Pardon me for that. It's easy to fall into if you know it. There are specific words to describe any of several thousand unique combinations, and they get excruciatingly precise."

Lee prompted, "So what does it mean?"

"Well, when the field is divided by a line that goes where the bend would be, it's called 'per bend' or 'party per bend'. But this one goes in the opposite direction, and is called 'per bend sinister'.

". . . . . . And?"

Michael chuckled quietly. "It's a badge of illegitimacy."

Two sets of eyebrows climbed high.

"Yep." He nodded, his grin widening. "Having the shield set per bend sinister means there's a bastard somewhere back up the line."

Lee shook his head, an incredulous expression covering his features, and Debbye burst out in a laugh. She recovered herself and said, "They can't possibly know that! Can they?"

"I'd think not. They wouldn't wear it if they did."

"Oh! Oh!" She slapped her knees, laughing again. "That is just . . . just too rich!"

Michael agreed. "True. It's funny from a certain perspective, as long as you aren't familiar with their activities." He flipped through the next few pages, showing the couple several variations on the theme while he waited for their merriment to subside. He stopped at a round patch. It was an actual cloth patch, taken from the jacket of one of the Knights, and was fixed to the page with glue.

"Hey, that looks familiar," observed Debbye.

"It should. These are the colors of the Knights of the Pure Strain. That's the group that came after you."

The patch was divided into three equal sections, like a pie chart. The upper left third was white with a red Maltese cross in it, the upper right third was blue, charged with a white paw print, and the bottom third was red and had a blue sword placed horizontally, pointing to the right. There was a narrow border of gold around the whole thing.

"The symbols didn't change much, did they?"

"No. Not the symbols themselves. But you have to remember this: most of the old Knights were relatively law-abiding. Yeah, they were jerks, and could be awfully antagonistic, but aside from a few relatively uncommon episodes of violence, the general run of them would prefer to stay out of trouble, given the choice. That no longer holds true.

"Now, you take the Purification Church, on the other paw. They've been around since the nineteenth century. They have a couple of enclaves in Montana and Alberta, but they stick exclusively to their territories and don't bother other folk. Yeah, their ideological stance is repugnant, but they don't try to force it on anyfurry. The Rose of the Blood is organized kind of the same way, out on the coast. They're set up like a commune. Join 'em or don't, they don't care, as long as hybrids keep out.

"But some of the other purist organizations, most notably the Knights, have allied themselves with criminal gangs. In many cases the line of demarcation between cult and gang has disappeared altogether. That's what we've found with the bunch you caught. It's a pattern whose growth I have been following for over eight years now."

"Eeee-yuck!" said Debbye. "That's downright scary."

"Downright bloody is closer to the truth. These people are ruthless. This jailbreak is only one of over a dozen such purist-related crimes that have occurred in the last few days, and the rate seems to be accelerating."

He leaned back in his chair, picked up a pen and started tapping it lightly on the chair's arm. Turning to Debbye, he said, "Ms. Evans, when I worked with your mother in Ohio, and the Knights made their first big push into that area, back in – ninety-seven? – yeah, end of ninety-seven, beginning of ninety-eight, they were unbelievably blatant about it. Put up their own billboards because no one would lease to them. Spread the most malicious garbage about mixed-species furs you ever heard."

Lee nodded. "I remember that. They kept it up for, what, close to a year?"

"Right, about ten months. They set up a chapter house in Columbus, got some twenty or twenty-five new members. But it never really took off."

"Yeah, I know the place. My friend Lyman was one of the regulars who picketed there." Lee smiled at the memory. "He got into any number of shouting matches with them, but the police were always close by and nothing physical ever came of it. I think the building is still there, but it's been boarded up for a long time now." He leaned back in thought for a few seconds, then snapped his fingers. "No, I lie. He did have a run-in with some of them once, at a bar. I think there were . . . three or four, I can't remember exactly. He'd know. But they were about half-lit and decided to see what he'd look like as a punching bag. They got into it pretty heavy, and the whole bar got involved. They had a real, old-fashioned donnybrook. Lyman got a little banged up, but he managed to slip out before the police got there. And he didn't seem to mind his bruises. He'd just grin and say, 'You oughta see the other guys.' The goof."

Michael Truefoot saw nothing amusing in the situation. "I can tell you that scenario has played out more than once, right here in Montpelier, over the last couple of days. And the purists are no longer content with fists. We've had three deaths from stabbings in bar brawls, and fifteen others from individual attacks. _Fifteen_." He paused to let that sink in. "Those are what concern me more. All of the furs that were attacked were obviously hybrids. And in each case, outside of the bar brawls, the victim was shot, and at close range. Some of them appear to have been tortured before being killed." Lee and Debbye looked at each other and shuddered.

He leaned forward and gave the couple a penetrating stare. "Prior to a period beginning eight days ago, we had had exactly one murder in Vermont during this calendar year, and that one was laid to insanity. We've averaged fewer than three per year for the last six years, thanks to several initiatives begun by my predecessor, which I have continued to support. My friends, ours is a quiet state . . . quiet, steady, and prosperous. We boast the second lowest violent-crime rate in the nation, after our good neighbor to the east, New Hampshire. It's one of the better tourism draws. 'Come to Vermont where you can take a safe vacation.' Of course we don't present it exactly that way, but the idea is woven into all the ads."

His expression bleak, he continued, "I frankly don't give a tinker's curse about that end of it. I just want to stop the killings. And the governor is just as concerned, if not more so. We expect your information, along with the fact that those who tried to kill you are all members of the same organization, to be of paramount importance in finalizing our case."

"I'm glad we can be of some help to you. I just wish it hadn't knocked our little get-away into such a big outside loop."

"I truly do regret that. But next Monday is the soonest we could arrange for an inquest, and you really do have to be here for it."

Debbye nodded. "We understand." She reached over and gave her husband's knee a squeeze. "It means I get him to myself for a little longer than we had originally planned. That's okay in my book." Her comment won her one of his broad smiles. Turning her gaze back to the bear, she asked, "Has any one of their other targets been able to give you much help?"

He gave her a blank look for a moment, then slowly shook his head.

"Really? Why not?"

"Um. Evidently, either through luck or better planning on the Knights' part, none of the other victims survived."

Their muzzles fell open. ". . . . . . . . . . What?"

"That's right. Our best estimates are that there are almost a thousand Knights in the state at this time. So far, you are the only group who got attacked and lived through it." They found his level, intense stare more than somewhat unnerving. "You and your friends are the only firm lead we have to connect the Knights with all these attacks."

_**[ And please consider for a moment, Gentle Reader, how receiving that sort of news might affect **__**your**__** sleep pattern. ]**_

##


	12. Chapter 4 Two Steps Forward  Part B

_**Chapter Four – Two Steps Forward . . . Part B.**_

##

_** 1:30pm ** _

Wendy's sensitive ears pricked and she swiveled her head in the direction of the front drive. She had come to recognize the engine sound of Karl's big truck early on in the game. A secretive smile on her face, she closed down the accounting program she was updating, locked the desk, and had padded into the Main Hall before the doorbell rang.

Passing the huge paired mirrors, she gave herself a quick once-over and nodded in satisfaction. The cream and black sleeveless-blouse-and-peddle-pushers combo would serve for her purposes. She swung around left into the southern Lower Passage and headed for the porte-cochère entrance.

Composing her features into a sultry, beguiling array, she opened the door and struck a pose. But only for a second or two.

Martin's muzzle dropped open in counterpoint to his eyebrows climbing into his headfur. He stated, clearly, "Dih…hum…ig…er…"

"Oh! Martin! It's you! I mean, um, hi, um, come in." She phased back into a straight, no-nonsense posture and held the door open wide for him.

"Ah…" He blinked a couple of times and took a deep breath. "Cén chaoi 'bhfuil tú?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh…um, I mean, good afternoon. Himself, that is Maister Luscus, wanted me t' put in this thermocouple." He held up a length of copper wire with a doodad on each end. " 'Twill go in yon furnace. The winter be a creepin' up, an' he didn' want for ye t' be without reliable heat."

"Oh, yes! I mean, I know." She peered past him, looking for the big fur. "Um, sure. By all means. Come on in, the furnace is this way." She was relieved to be able to turn from him in leading the way. She had no desire to meet his eyes just then.

Both had gotten pretty much composed by the time they got to the furnace room. Martin had returned to his usual, cheerful self, and seemed inclined to pretend nothing had happened, which suited Wendy.

"Martin?"

"Yes'm?"

"I thought Karl was going to come look at the furnace. Not that I have any doubts about your ability, it's just that I wasn't expecting to see you."

_Oh, rather! _He thought._ As if __that__ were a surprise._ "Aye, he would have, had he not been tied up with th' State Troopers and such."

Wendy's blank look prompted him to elaborate. "The state p'lice be talkin' to him 'bout the Purebreds."

"Oh. Right. Of course." _Crud. Wonder how long __that's__ gonna take?_ "Okay. You got everything you need?"

"Aye." He looked at the rear of the furnace and nodded. "Standard setup."

She got an estimate of how long it would take to replace (ten minutes, tops) and left him to his work, scurrying back to her office.

Eight minutes later, there was a light tapping on her door. She reached back and opened it.

"All done, Miz Wylde."

"_Wendy_."

"Yes'm."

The vixen sighed. Some furs just couldn't overcome a proper upbringing. "Is there anything else you need to do?"

"Well… I, um, ye see… I was wonderin'… that is, if ye think it's all right…" He blushed furiously, the fur on his muzzle practically obscuring his eyes. "Could ye… do ye know where…"

The corner of Wendy's mouth twitched. "Spit it out, Martin."

It all came out in a rush. "Do ye know where I could send a missive to Miss Foxx?"

She chuckled softly. "It's possible." Turning back to her desk to leaf through a file drawer, she extracted an envelope. "I was instructed to give you this in case you showed up with that request."

The mouse's eyes and mouth flew open in glad amazement, and he _almost_ snatched the letter from her paw. Holding it protectively to his chest, he stammered his thanks.

"Hey, don't thank me until you've read it. I don't have a clue what it says."

" 'Preciate it, Ma'am. Bye."

"It's _Wendy_!" she called after him with a laugh.

##

_** 5:50pm ** _

Siobhan O'Musca's fingers flew as she gathered and tacked the smocking on the bodice of the ivory-colored ball gown. She'd been working steadily on this project for most of the past week, and figured to be able to deliver the garment tomorrow afternoon. The commission she made from it would go a long way toward buying a few presents for the children at Christmas.

So she spared only a glance in Martin's direction when he came breezing through the door. When she saw his face, though, she dropped her work into her lap and spoke his name. It took three tries to get his attention.

He turned to her, eyes slightly glazed. "Aye, Mum?"

She quirked an eyebrow at him as the corner of her mouth twitched, holding back a grin. His own smile lit the room. "An' what is it that has ye torqued up so tight, then?"

"Oooh, Mum! She went an' wrote me!"

" 'She'? An' that be the coomely, black wisp o' vixen what was a-vis'tin' wi' Miz Wendy?"

"Aye!" He flung out his arms and spun around the small room, barely missing a jar on the mantel. "She wants t' see me again! They'll be comin' back f'r the trial in late October, an' stayin' at th' Inn." He fair danced out of the room and into the kitchen, followed by his mother's chuckles.

Their domicile was a very simple affair, a clapboard saltbox with a 'parlor' and kitchen on the left side and two bedrooms on the right, built 'in the round', with no hallway. Siobhan slept in the attic, which Martin, Senior, had converted for their use. It was quite the coziest room in the place, and she had been extraordinarily happy there, sharing it with her sturdy husband. Though his memory yet haunted the attic with painful reminders, she stayed there because it was the most sensible way to use the space. And she was nothing if not sensible.

The house was quite old: indoor plumbing had not been original equipment. But sometime during the last fifty years or so, somefur had piped water to the kitchen and tacked a _tiny_ bathroom onto the rear of the house. Like the attic space, it was accessible through the kitchen.

Martin shared the back bedroom with his youngest brother, Robert, age seven. Ian and ten-year-old Sean shared the front bedroom. Martin, Senior, had built the bunk beds they all slept in, the dressers where they all kept their clothes, and the table and chairs they used in the kitchen. His touch lay on every room in the house, and sometimes his presence lay heavily on his sons. They all had been very close.

Sitting down on his bunk, Martin pulled Samantha's letter out of his back pocket and opened it again, though by now he had it committed to memory. He looked at it, marveling at her beautiful, even script.

**Dear Martin,**

**I guess, since you are reading this, you must have asked about contacting me. I never did get your address, and Mom said it would be too forward to write you myself, but she did agree to this, and I'm so glad you asked! We are going to be coming back up to Vermont when they put those jerkface Purebreds on trial in October, and I'd like to see you then, if you don't mind. Do you mind? I don't mind.**

**I just re-read that part. It sounds silly. Sorry about that. My friend Drew said you might like a picture of me, so here's one of my basketball-team proofs. I don't have a more recent one, but maybe I can borrow Dad's digital camera and send you a picture by e-mail. Do you have a picture? I wish I'd thought to get one of us when I was there. Maybe we can do that later, huh?**

**I told Drew all about you, and she's jealous. She wants to know how old you are and stuff, but I didn't tell her because I don't know. Does that matter? I don't think so. Not really. In some ways, maybe. Who knows?**

**You can write to me at this address if you want to. I wouldn't mind ****too**** much if you did. I asked Mom about chatting with you on-line, but she got the funniest look on her face and said 'Maybe later. Yeah, maybe a lot later. A whole lot later.' She wouldn't tell me what she meant by that, but I guess chatting is out for now. Don't know why. I've got my own connection to the web and everything. She said you could have my e-mail address, just for e-mail, not for chatting. I wonder what her big hang-up is with chatting. Maybe I'll ask Dad some time.**

**So. You going to write me back? Drew made a bet with Allyx that you wouldn't, but I think she's just being petty. I couldn't see any reason why you wouldn't write me back. That's a hint, by the way.**

**I guess I don't have any more to say. I could talk about the weather, but it will probably be old news by the time you read this. So, goodbye. No, wait. Auf wiedersehen. That means 'see you later' or something like that, which is what I hope.**

**See you later?**

**Love, Samantha Foxx**

_She wrote 'love'! Is that just a standard letter-writing thing, or does she mean it? She wants me to write her back. Maybe Karl will let me use his computer to send her an e-mail tomorrow._

He pulled her photo out of his shirt pocket, held it close to his face, and sighed. She had on her basketball uniform, and was on one knee beside the court, holding a ball. As it did every time he held it near his nose, her lingering scent wove patterns around his mind, pulling him in tight, making him fairly useless for anything else. She had written her phone number on the back of the picture, with a short notation that it was the family number. She did not have her own telephone line.

He flopped back on the bed and closed his eyes, a happy smile plastered all over his face. "Samantha," he sighed. "Leannán!"

##

_** Tuesday 20 September 2016, 12:30pm ** _

Wendy flicked an ear in that direction when the faint sound of hammering reached her again. She had been checking on Mr. Bassirisca's work periodically through the entire morning, and her amazement and satisfaction grew each time she looked into the room. A couple of times she had supplied him with a cold drink, but other than that the lithe ringtail had labored in a steady, productive silence.

Having surmised early on that he disliked interruptions, she had assembled a selection of small but tasty sandwiches, and squares of melon with toothpicks in them. These, arranged on a large platter next to a tall mug of fresh milk, she carried up to the entrance of the room where he was working. She placed them on a plant stand just outside the door and said, "Whenever you feel that you've found a good stopping place, here's some lunch."

He glanced back over his shoulder at the platter and nodded. "Gracias." Then he resumed construction.

She watched for a minute in admiration. She considered herself a good and competent worker, and had achieved a remarkable amount of progress in the time she'd put in at the house, but this guy was in an entirely different league. What he'd done just since seven this morning would have taken her the better part of two days. And she seriously doubted that her efforts would have turned out as well. The crown molding was completely stripped and looked practically new. The old, damaged plaster was gone, all four walls were ready to be re-plastered, the new window was in place and already primed, and the hole in the floor would shortly be nothing but a memory.

She gave herself a mental pat on the back. She had done a good bit of research before choosing a carpenter, and it certainly seemed to have paid off. She got the low-down on the four she was considering from Quinn, and several factors, not the least of them being price, led her to Jacinto Bassirisca. He and his small family had relocated from a village on the Conchos River in Mexico less than two months earlier, and he was trying to get his trade established. His English was only a shade better than her Spanish, but they got by.

Ellen was due any minute to help get ready for supper. The Evanses would be staying the night in Montpelier, at the behest of the State Attorney General. Debbye had called to give Wendy some of the particulars. During the thorough background search, several items turned up that gave Mr. Truefoot seriously to pause. Lee explained his job and responsibilities as completely as he could without compromising any classified information, and gave a satisfactory reason for having a concealed-weapons permit. His and Debbye's extensive involvement in the martial arts, while mildly unusual, was by no means unique, and the Attorney General didn't comment on it much (except to chortle a bit over the poetic justice they had meted out to their attackers). But the upshot of it all was that they would not be at the Inn tonight.

Which meant that supper was on. She had a short list of semi-regulars who had given her their phone numbers in case she had a cancellation or a no-show. Those four names gave her a measure of flexibility for just such occasions. And Mel Mbaata, who had discovered Ash Creek Café barely a month after moving to the area, jumped at the chance when she had called this morning. Originally from South Africa's lowest extremity, the meerkat found the climate in Vermont much to his liking. Locating a source for good (_really_ good) South African cuisine had made up his mind to stay.

A quick tour of the larder and freezer told her all she needed to know, and they had quickly settled on a menu. Now the necessary ingredients were either thawing or simmering or marinating, and she had a little time to herself. She stopped by the kitchen to get a tall glass of iced tea, and went to the rear porch to wait on Ellen.


	13. Chapter 5 Misdirection

_**Chapter Five – Misdirection**_

**Behind every great fortune there is a crime.**

_**- Honoré de Balzac**_

##

_** Wednesday 21 September 2016, 5:20am ** _

Sitting at his upstairs computer, Karl waited patiently for the final transaction to confirm. He had jockeyed the money in various amounts through one hundred and thirty-eight separate institutions, under a plethora of well-established aliases, to get it poised for the final leap. He knew the home-office financial watchdog programs were keyed to report transfers falling outside certain parameters, which changed three times a week. To be sure to stay within the guidelines, the field agents who used the funds day-to-day had to refer to code lists that changed according to a set pattern. That pattern had been established some years previously, and would not repeat for over two decades. Its semi-random plan was intricate enough to ensure that no outside source would deduce it, and the only master copy was kept in a very safe place.

Once, several years ago, Karl had made a clandestine and _very_ unauthorized visit for the sole purpose of reviewing it, and had committed it to memory.

At length, the message came through, and he allowed himself a satisfied nod. _There. Paid 'em back double. That ought to give their auditors something to chew on._

He closed that program and checked in on some of the others. A few (such as the terrorist-bait site) he kept running continuously (from a remote location, as a protective buffer) and monitored them from here. He'd hooked two more in the last three days, and forwarded the information to the Internal Security Bureau's "Concerned Citizen" site. The capture rate from his information ran slightly better than forty percent, which was high enough to keep him interested. Nor did he fault the ISB. They had more on their plate than they could say grace over as it was, and they really did get a lot of crank hits to that site.

His commodities-trading program reported a gain of 0.7% for the week. That translated into a shade less than a hundred and seventy thousand dollars, which wasn't too bad, considering the world economy. He transferred the margin to a medium-risk bond house, and iterated the program.

He called up the freight information for a certain shipment in which he had an intense interest, and was gratified to see that it was still on schedule. Docking would take place in about six hours.

He closed all the programs and powered the system down, then made himself a breakfast of a half-kilo of cheese, three cans of tuna, five apples, four liters of protein concentrate drink, and one of the left-over loaves of bread from his last trip to the Inn. The prospect of some lunch later was iffy, and he wanted to be on top of his game for this day's activities.

He'd left instructions with Martin the day before about what to do in his absence. They would be open only half the day, in the morning, and the dormouse had a pair of small engines to fix in the afternoon. If he got them done early, so much the better, but he was not to stay at the Shop past five, finished or not. It had taken some doing to get the schedule into Martin's brain. Unaccountably, the boy seemed terribly preoccupied.

He cleaned up the few utensils he'd dirtied, snagged a small, tightly-packed duffle from the rack beside the stairs, and hopped down to the garage. In the rear bay, behind a lightweight partition, sat an old delivery van. After much diligent searching on the 'net, he had purchased it some months back, in anticipation of this need.

He'd taken a trip over the state line to Albany, where he found the vehicle as Lot #47 in a repossession auction. Under an assumed and completely fictitious identity, he paid cash and drove it back to New Haven Junction in the middle of the night. Since that time, he had removed every identifying mark, rebuilt the engine, replaced the transmission and brake system, and added a gas-assist to the suspension. Three weeks ago he had painted it the same dark tan color as a similar van of that make and model that was still on the road in rural Ohio. Two weeks ago he had completed the manufacture of the duplicate plates.

As he looked at it sitting there in the dim light, Karl knew it was a reasonable facsimile of another van that saw intermittent use in a city over twelve hundred kilometers to the southwest. That should give anyfur who tried tracking him something useless to occupy his time. Karl checked the function of the audio pickup, just to make sure that he'd be able to record the comments of the furs who did the investigation. After all, considering the elaborate measures he was using to conceal his identity, and the incidental practical joke it produced, he felt he owed himself a bit of feedback.

Karl moved the partition out of the way, tossed the duffel into the passenger seat, and sent the re-born vehicle down the road. Barring unforeseen circumstances, he should be on the docks in Boston in about five hours. He rolled the window down and began whistling the opening bars from _Brigg Fair_.

##

_** 12:50pm ** _

A cat of medium build, with medium-gray tabby fur, stood in a small, vacant lot just off 8th Street where he could watch the disposition of the ship's cargo being unloaded there. His clothes were old, worn, and dark, and he looked (and smelled) like someone who hadn't been close to water in some time. He had his right paw jammed into the pocket of the ragged pants, his back slouched against one of the dozens of discarded metal drums in the lot. Periodically, he would take a small swig from a bottle in a wrinkled brown bag. He was the kind of fur that no one saw, the kind that one's gaze tended simply to slide past.

And that, of course, was the idea.

An older delivery van had been sitting up the street a hundred meters or so when he'd positioned himself just before noon, out of the way of the bustle at the dock. The driver still sat there, obviously waiting for something. He'd spared it a glance now and then, but could see nothing exceptional about it.

He tensed ever so slightly when he spotted the reason for his being there at that time. The crate of interest swung off the ship and was lowered to the ground. He spoke softly, "Tanner?"

No response.

"Tanner?" Somewhat louder this time.

On the second floor of the warehouse across the street, a grizzled rabbit continued reading his copy of _The Exhumer_, studiously ignoring his partner's call.

"Dammit, Tanner, acknowledge!"

"Don't get your tail in a knot, Miggs. I see it." The rabbit's voice was slightly tinny, an unavoidable effect of the intra-osteo implants. "And I still don't think the one who ordered it will turn up today. That would be really stupid, and anyone who had any use for those components wouldn't be stupid by any measure. He'll probably try to swipe it from the warehouse sometime in the next two or three nights." The two agents had engaged in a small wager on this topic.

"Oh, you think?"

"Why? You know something I don't? As if that could happen."

"Tell you what, you old windbag. You keep watching that crate for about the next . . . oh, seven or eight seconds. Then let me know."

Tanner sat up straight, scanning the road, and spotted the van. It was moving slowly toward the dock, and stopped less than five meters from the cargo.

"Oh, shit! I don't believe this. He is an idiot after all." Sighing in exasperation, he said, "Guess that means lunch is on me." He quickly patched a call through to their immediate superior.

"Dis is Capra."

"Capra, we got a problem. The receiver showed up."

"Heh. Dunno dat I'd call dat a problem, Tanny. He made yer job dat much easier."

"Well . . . yeah . . . but we aren't fixed up for a tail. We're set for surveillance. We don't have an interceptor."

"Ah, keep ya shoit on. It'll take 'im, what, twenny-five, toity minutes ta get da stuff checked in an' loaded. Da box masses better'n six-fifty kilos, so he's gotta get a forklift, 'less he wants ta break it open an' put all da pieces in sep'rate. I'll have somebuddy out for ya 'fore den."

"Okay, Capra. We'll keep him covered. Out."

Tanner redirected his gaze to the action. The driver, a very dark, _very_ tall fur, had gotten out of the van and was talking to the dock super. They looked over his papers for a few moments, and the two walked over to the super's office.

"Hey, Miggs, you get a look at that guy?"

"Sort of. His fur's so dark all I could make out was his profile. Some species of mustelid. Probably wolverine by the tail, but likely a hybrid. Coloring's all wrong."

"Can you get closer? Capra's arranging an intercept, but I don't want to lose him in the meantime."

"I'll try. There isn't much cover between here and there." He snickered. "Maybe I'll go bum a smoke off of him, eh?"

"Ha ha. Just watch yourself. He's probably armed."

"Roger." The cat slouched away from the metal drum and meandered over in the general direction of the crates on the dock. He chose one several meters from the objective, and flopped down onto the dock's sun-warmed boards, leaning against its southern side. He was fishing around in his pocket for a smoke when the target and the super came back out. He gave them a rheumy stare and climbed unsteadily to his feet.

Tanner, meanwhile, had noted the make, model, and plate number of the van, and sent the information to Capra, who entered it into his search database. He had the owner's vital statistics in less than a minute, and they gave him seriously to pause. Robinson Alfredo Mustel, hybrid weasel/Kodiak bear, widower, age fifty-seven, rural postal carrier, lived off Highway 138 west of Clarksburg, Ohio. Not the demographic he expected, but this information meant the van was probably not stolen. He spoke to Tanner again. "Hey, Tanny, gimme da stats on yer mark."

"Male mustelid, apparently a hybrid. Stands well over two meters."

_Well, that fits. And it pretty much lets out the 'stolen' part._ "Okay, I'll run da plates, but I don't t'ink it'll turn up much." He checked another screen. "Yer backup's ETA is six minutes."

"Copy. Target appears to be finalizing transfer details." Tanner took a quick look around the area. "I don't see a forklift anywhere close, so we should be fine."

"Keep da line open anyways."

Miggs had stumbled over to the pair, extending his cigarette in a tremulous paw. "H-h-hey, fellers, g-g-got a light?"

The super turned on him with a curse. "Get outta here, ya idjit rummy!"

The feline cowered and lurched away. But he had gotten a very clear look at the mark's face, and a better estimate of his height and weight. He reported his findings to Tanner as soon as he was hunkered down behind a stack of bales, and out of earshot.

That is, he _thought_ he was out of earshot.

The huge fur's ears pricked and his head shifted slightly in Miggs' direction; he turned and trotted over to his van, started it up, made a quick three-point turn, and backed it up next to the crate.

Miggs had heard the van move into position, but didn't give it much thought at the time. But half-a-minute later, he heard its motor kick to life again, and peered around the side of the cargo. Leaping to his feet, he shouted, "Hey, Tanner! Tanner!"

"What?" His irritation was plain over the closed-circuit link.

"Look!"

Tanner leaned over, took in the scene on the dock, and yelled for Capra.

"What's gotcha woiked up, Tanny?"

"Capra, that guy's driving off!"

"He's leavin' da stuff?"

"No! The crate's gone! He musta got it into the van somehow."

". . . . Repeat dat, Tanner."

"I say, the mark is leaving and the crate is nowhere to be seen."

Now, at first blush, Capra didn't look like anyone's idea of the class genius. A mostly-Great-Pyrenees canine, he never had paid much attention to his personal grooming, allowing his excessively thick, white fur to grow wherever it would, and dropping ash in an intermittent stream from the foul-smelling cigar that seemed to be a permanent fixture on his lower lip. But he hid a keen mind behind that shaggy exterior, and Agent Tanner's information did nothing to settle it. Something tugged at his memory, but not hard enough to warrant immediate exploration. "He musta had a lift in th' damn van! Tanny, yer gonna hafta stay on his tail somehow."

"Um. Roger that." He called Miggs. "Miggy, I need you to hop your bike and follow him."

"What about Capra's intercept?"

"It's still a few minutes out. Just keep him in sight and report his position."

Miggs took off up the dock at a dead run, mumbling curses.

##

_** 5:05pm ** _

Scoggins' Diner was something of a local institution around Drury. A third-generation business, staffed exclusively by family members, it boasted a menu of archetypically heavy New England cuisine. But location is always a factor in any capital venture, and location was not a friend to the diner. Stuck well off the beaten path in a decidedly rural section of Massachusetts Highway 2, it hung on through a loyal-but-very-small local clientele. All the through-traffic just kept on going.

The most obvious effect of this just-scratching-by financial situation was that the physical plant had not been altered since 1941. That summer before the United States entered World War II, the founder added a screened porch to the front. Other than that, only the tablecloths and the calendars ever changed. That worked well from Karl's perspective, since the small parking lot had always been behind the building, and the owners had never seen fit to move it or spruce it up. It was practically invisible from the road, due to the high banks of hedge surrounding it.

Karl pulled into the lot, noting the three other vehicles: a late-model Toyota two-door, a farm-use pickup, and an old LTD whose paint had seen better days. He parked next to the LTD, shifted into Augmented speed, and in a few seconds transferred the crate to the place where the LTD's back seat would have been, had he not modified it rather heavily. Its windows were polarized, and the crate was short enough so that the lid sat even with the bottom of the windows. Karl had been careful, both in his specifications for the size and weight of the crate, and the 'adaptations' he'd made to the car.

Still moving in a blur, he removed a metal cube some eight centimeters on a side from underneath the van, and attached it behind the rear bumper of the LTD.

He grabbed his duffel off the seat of the van and stuffed it inside his jacket. From a distance, it was not immediately noticeable. Then, slipping out of Augment, he walked around to the front of the diner (spotting the tail cars out of the corner of one eye on his way) and went inside.

The sinewy weasel in charge of the pursuit peered down the road at the diner and spoke into his headset. "Okay, Capra, the van's behind the building. You want us to move in now?"

"Roger. Keep your camera goin'. Make da tag as soon as he goes inside." Capra chuckled to himself. "Looks like our boy did us a favor pickin' dis spot fer dinner."

"Copy. We're moving up. Out." He picked up the locator device they intended to attach to the van and gave it a final check, then looked over at his partner with a grimace. "Katherine?"

"You need something, Thom?" The Husky femme kept her eyes on the monitors.

"Got any of that beef jerky on you?"

"Sure." She reached around to the back seat and rummaged for something to chew on.

Thom spotted their target. "Here he comes, Capra."

"Good. Lessee what dis Mr. Mustel looks like." He studied the image being transmitted to his screen.

Capra's hackles stood up so straight that from the rear he looked like a dandelion bursting into bloom.

"_**Shit!**_ _Negative! Abort! Abort!_ Do not, repeat, do _**not**_ engage mark!"

Thom and Katherine jerked and looked at each other. "Say again, Capra?"

"Do not engage! Subject is a Level Six contact threat. Do not approach. Pull back ta extreme monitor range. Be advised: dere is no reasonable safe distance ya can maintain from dis mark. If he can see ya, he can kill ya. An' sometimes he don' even need ta see ya." Capra's paws flew over the control bank as he checked the area for backup units. _Sonuvabitch!_ _That's__ how he got the crate into the van. Dammit! Where's the stinkin' National Guard when ya need 'em? Ah, there we are._

"Level _Six?_ Holy crud, Capra! You know this guy?"

"Yah. His name is Beorn Gulo. An' I don' see how dere could be two dat look like 'im."

"You had to fight him before?"

"No." He paused to lick flews that had gone dry. "We was teammates."

Thom shrugged as he maneuvered the car back down the road. "Whatever." He wasn't impressed. Aside from being roughly the size of their vehicle, the mark didn't look especially dangerous. He couldn't see what the excitement was about.

He parked and they watched the entrance for a bit. "Hey, Capra?"

"Yeah?"

"There's a bear leaving the diner."

"Yeah? So?"

"Think it might be the mark? You know. Quick-change artist stuff?"

Capra checked his watch. _One minute, thirty-five seconds. That would be awfully fast, even for Gulo_. "Eh. What's he look like? Can ya get me a camera angle?"

"Like Methuselah. Kinda fat, gray fur, bent over, using a cane." He glanced at Katherine, who was recording everything. "Movin' real slow-like, too. Can you see him now?"

"Yyyyyeah." He studied the hunched figure closely. Beorn had never favored disguises. He was more the 'shoot-everything-that-moves-and-blow-the-rest-to-smithereens' type. He decided it most probably _was_ a bear.

"Have Purr an' O'Connelly stop 'im fer questionin' once he gets outta sight o' da diner. Ya got armor comin', ETA twenny-five minutes."

"Uh . . . Roger that. Heavy armor?"

"Heavy enough, I hope."

Thom made a face and gave his head a small shake. He passed the other two officers their instructions, then asked, "What's up with the Level Six, Capra?" He grinned to himself and asked, "This fur got super powers or something?"

Capra didn't say anything.

"Capra? You there?"

"Somethin' like dat, yeah."

"Oh. . . ." He hadn't expected an affirmative answer. "Well, what, then?"

"He's five times as fast an' eight times as strong as da biggest badass ya ever met."

"So? If he's good, I wouldn't mind having him watch my back in a fight, but that doesn't make him bullet proof. Just call in a sniper. It's hard to argue with twenty-three grams of lead below the ear."

"Yeah, ya'd think so, wouldn' ya?"

"Well, then, I don't get it. What makes him so special?"

Again, he got no answer from the hirsute canine.

"You don't really know, do you?"

Capra sighed and said, "Put it dis way, Tommy." Pregnant pause. "Dat guy took out a whole Cartel cell on his lonesome. No backup." He let that sink in for a moment. "We're talkin' some forty or forty-five armed furs. He's just dat good. If ya wanna go home ta Sophie on yer feet, 'stead of in a box, ya stay put."

The Husky spoke up. "Thom?"

"What?"

"I'd let it drop if I were you."

"How come?"

"Because I'm hearing something I've never heard before."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"Capra's scared. You're fairly new to the team, and you haven't seen any real action with him." She held up her paws defensively as he started to protest. "I know! I know. You've got a great record. What I said was, you haven't seen action _with Capra_. He doesn't scare worth a damn. So if he's actually afraid of that fellow in the diner, I'm keeping my mouth shut and staying back."

Thom still wasn't too happy, but he did decide to leave it alone.

Shortly, an older LTD turned slowly out of the lane beside the diner and headed east, leaving a tinge of blue smoke in the air as it passed the surveillance car. Some five hundred meters down the road, an unmarked sedan pulled off of the shoulder and followed it. When they got around a bend, the sedan turned on its blue lights.

Karl had taken note of the sedan, and slowed so they could come up behind him, pulling off onto the shoulder. He picked up his remote from the seat and pressed a sub-flush button on its face. A small, flat object fell to the ground from the box behind his rear bumper. As soon as the trailing car passed over it, intense magnetic force pulled it up onto the underside of the frame. Five seconds later, all electrical activity in a four-meter radius ceased. Its engine dead, the sedan rolled to a stop. Karl gunned the LTD, quickly accelerating to a hundred and twenty klicks, and disappeared around a curve.

Officer Matthew Purr cursed under his breath as he tried to get the engine restarted. It wouldn't make the slightest sound for him, though. He turned to the Irish Wolfhound beside him, and said, "Sorry, Vince. Better let Kate know we lost him."

"I'm trying! The radio's dead!"

Matthew tried his belt radio, but it was stone silent as well. "Crap. I wonder what he did to us."

"Beats me. We'll have to hoof it back to command, though." O'Connelly climbed out and started running back up the road, his long legs eating the distance, and had apprised Capra of the situation in under three minutes. But they had no air support close by, and although they set up a dragnet that covered three counties, they did not locate the LTD.

It didn't take Capra very long at all to figure out that he'd been had.

##

_** 10:32pm ** _

In Needham, Massachusetts, on Great Plains Avenue, there is a small, unassuming office building. It doesn't look much different from the other 'professional association' buildings in the area: brick, two stories, and old. But the parking lot has stringently restricted access, the sign on the front door directs visitors around to the back, and just inside the rear foyer, an armored guard with an automatic rifle keeps careful watch on those who enter, making sure their retinal scans check out, and dealing with the occasional . . . 'discrepancy'.

In the sub-basement, surrounded by several meters of reinforced concrete, is the control center for the ISB's Northeast Protectorate Zone. Hemanth Rajid occupies the office of the Director. A mongoose of middle years, he is conservatively dressed, trim and dapper. He has held this position for several years, and is very, very good at what he does. Normally unflappable, Capra's most recent report shook him badly.

He examined the holographic image of the thin, metallic box recovered from the muffler of the unmarked patrol car. They'd taken deepscans of the inside, since the case was seamlessly welded, and had discovered nothing but slag, courtesy of an efficient self-destruct mechanism.

"And you found no bombs in the van either? No booby traps, no acids sprays, no poison gas?"

"Zilch, Raj. I toldja, far as traps go, it's cleaner dan a parson on Saturday night. Gulo didn' leave _nothin'_ in it but dat omni-mike, an' I give 'im a ear-full when I found it. Van's got no marks, no numbers, no nothin'."

"This is most distressing." The clipped accent put one in mind, not of England, exactly, but perhaps one of its island colonies. "The fact that his activities ended so abruptly had led us to assume his death. But now it would seem our conclusion that the Cartel had finally gotten him is baseless. Whatever can he have been doing since 2011?"

"Beats hell outta me, Raj. But I'll stake my rep, and yours too, on dat guy bein' Gulo."

"Oh, I haven't the slightest doubt on that score. The physical strength he exhibited rules out anyone else. There isn't another fur on the planet who could have manipulated that crate so easily. Not any more."

"Well, dat's what I t'ought, too."

"But he didn't kill anyone. That's highly out of character. And he had a perfect opportunity with the patrol car." He highlighted the holograph. "This e-mag scrambler could just as easily have been a bomb. _More_ easily, given Beorn's background."

"Yeah, dat crossed my mind."

"And he's vanished again. This is not good."

"So what's da move, boss?"

"Let me discuss it with the Secretary first, but I feel that we need to locate him. He knows much that would be of use to us, and I can't condone just leaving him out there. That wolverine is a fair definition of 'loose cannon'."

"Heard dat, boyo."

"Capra, when you complete your investigation, contact me. Time of day is irrelevant. We need to know as much as possible before moving to engagement."

"Yeah. I ain't lookin' forward ta dat. Not a bit." Capra snuffed out what was left of his stogy and reached into his pocket for another. This promised to be a long night.


	14. Chapter 6 One Step Back Part A

**_Chapter Six – . . . . One Step Back_**

**Experience is that marvelous thing  
****that enables you to recognize a mistake  
when you make it again.**

_**- F. P. Jones**_

##

_** Thursday 22 September 2016, 7:00am ** _

Karl sat moodily in front of his monitor, staring at its blank eye. He had remained thus posed, immobile, for the last forty-five minutes, ever since first listening to the recording of the hidden audio pickup in the van. It had not been a pleasant experience.

He didn't need to replay it. He never actually _needed_ to listen to anything more than once. But even without Augmented memory, this piece would have been branded indelibly on his brain.

"_Gulo, ya cocky bastard! I'll getcha fer dis. You ain't playin' **me** fer a sucker again! Ya better enjoy da time ya got left as a free fur, 'cause when I catch up to ya, I'll make damn sure ya spend da rest o' yer mizzerble life in da dark, alone, an' hungry!" _The transmission had ended with a crunch.

At length, he reached out, brought the monitor back up, and erased the file.

_He's right, you know_, he told himself. _You got cocky. You got careless. You didn't anticipate that someone who would recognize you might be on reconnaissance. Even given that they have you officially listed as 'dead', you should have taken a few further steps to forestall that eventuality._

Crud.

He sighed a small sigh and began running through his various worm programs, to see which ones were still active in the ISB's section of cyberspace. He hadn't felt the need to check any of them in several months, and now chided himself. There may have been something indicating which agents were slated for tracking his shipment. Oh, well, no use crying, et cetera.

But this did raise a number of questions.

_Now that they know, will they try to find me? _

_That's a stupid question, and you know better than to ask._

_So should I move my base of operations to one of the other sites?_

_In all likelihood. But it will take some time for them to locate you, even given **their **resources, so there really isn't that big a hurry._

_What about the Fixit Shop?_

_Martin gets that, of course._

_And what about Wendy?_

_. . . . . . . . . . . . ._

_. . . . . . . . . ._

_. . . . . ._

_. . ._

_. _

_I said: What about Wendy?_

_I heard you the first time._

_You planning to just let this chance slip out of your paws, hmmm? O, Master of Isolation?_

_Shut up._

_Just trying to be helpful._

He shook himself, got up, and went to the refrigerator for a drink. These mental conversations could be a real drag sometimes. But he did need to make some decisions.

So. What _about_ Wendy?

An excellent question. But one for which he had no answer at this time. He went back over to the work station and sat down. Two minutes later he got a ping as the various active worms listed on the screen.

_Hmh. Only eight. The other twenty-five must have been found and neutralized. That's what I get for neglecting the minutiae. And I can't let that continue._

He tapped the EXPAND command and the list blossomed into top-tier detail.

**Cannidd, Xavier – Washington, D.C. – Internal Affairs**

A useful set of files, though Karl never had liked the fur. But then, the portly Chow was such an antagonistic busybody, _nobody_ liked him.

**Dingo, Kunwalla – Nashville, TN – Specialist, Linguistics**

He'd never met the aboriginal linguist. Read his book, and used his quick-study techniques, but never actually come face-to-face with him.

**Freefur, Aurora – Seattle, WA – Terrorism Interdiction, Pacific Northwest**

That name brought a smile to his face. The lithe sable/skunk hybrid enjoyed finding and 'dealing with' terrorists almost as much as he had. She'd been one of the few furs at the ISB who could last any time against him in unarmed combat. Before he received his Augmentation, that is. It was something of a relief to see her file still active. That was a strong indication that she hadn't yet been killed.

**Herpailura, Augustus – New York, NY – Specialist, Forensics**

Good old Gus. Karl had learned a great deal from the aged jaguarundi. Much of the training he had applied in the construction of his 'bait' sites. He never had properly thanked the old fellow, and likely would never get the chance.

**Katt, Marla – Pasadena, CA – Specialist, Energy**

Intense. Focused. One might almost say manic about her subject. Karl had her tenacity in research to thank for at least three of the 'useful items' he had liberated from the lab before he left. The leopard preferred that her creations be used in the field, and had always been more than happy to demonstrate how they worked. Her stake in the ISB was personal, he knew: both parents had been killed in a terrorist attack on the Turkish embassy in 1994.

**Rajid, Hemanth – Boston, MA – Terrorism Interdiction, Northeast**

Ah, now, there was a true mine of information. Hemanth had been on the support team before getting kicked upstairs for being so good at it. The mongoose was just as hyper-competent as Capra, but had a better head for office politics. Of course, on that score, _everyone_ had a better head for politics. Capra said what he thought, and to heck with the consequences. If Raj was on his tail now, he'd have to be more careful than usual.

**Somme, Evelyn – Washington, D.C. – Specialist, Collation**

He stopped and let his mind wander for a bit when he came to her name. She was a very tall, very exotic tarsier. He had no particular use for the information in her file, having taught her everything she needed to know about sifting the tons of data that came into the headquarters each day. She'd taught him a few things in return, off-hours, but nothing he cared to mull over now. He erased the link.

**Vasonelle, Maxwell – Houston, TX – Director, Central American Liaisons**

Another one he hadn't met, but knew of by reputation. The badger was a born statesfur, and had a better feel for diplomacy than most of the ambassadors he had to deal with.

_Okay, let's rock. Time for some digging._ His fingers tapped at the keys in a rapid staccato.

##

_** 10:40am ** _

The day having turned off cold and wet, Lee and Debbye decided to explore, once again, the possibilities offered in the library. Ellen was on paw as well. The four of them, and two of the bodyguards, had stayed up very late the night before, playing Double-Deck-Cancellation-Spot-Hooligan Hearts, those not on-duty partaking of a bottle of Wendy's claret.

She had produced the wine, initially, to toast their decision to continue to accept her hospitality. When Lee had voiced his concerns that their presence in her house was a danger to her, and that everyone might be better served by their staying elsewhere, she would hear none of it.

"If anything, I should refund part of your bill for all the trouble you've had to put up with."

"Absolutely not! You had nothing to do with any of our difficulties, and we have had nothing but a great time here at the Inn. Right, honey?"

Debbye nodded emphatically. "That's for sure. In fact, if we'd stayed here the whole time, we never would have bumped into those jerks at all."

"True," said Lee. "But then, Emily and Cinnamon might have been killed if we _hadn't_ been there, so I guess it was meant to be. So," he continued, turning to Wendy, "if it doesn't worry you, I guess we shouldn't let it worry us."

"Right," Wendy agreed. "And you've got four, count 'em, four bodyguards, for goodness' sake! If that won't do it, I don't think it would matter where you stayed. Besides," she added, "Mr. Truefoot is paying me a very adequate per diem to feed and house his muscle, so really I'm coming out ahead on the deal."

"Good for you." And that had settled matters.

Consequently, mid-morning found her and her guests comfortably attired in various warm robes and wraps to combat the penetrating chill, and curled up in the wingback chair and the long chaise, respectively. The petite vixen was a third of the way through a history of the area now occupied by Addison and Washington counties. Debbye was thoroughly engrossed with an account of a military expedition against Fort Ticonderoga. Lee had his head in her lap, eyes at half-mast. She toyed absently with his headfur, and he occasionally would give forth with a low, contented sigh.

All three heard the faint sound of the phone, cut off in the middle of the third ring. Wendy said, "I hope that's Karl calling to tell me he can come fix this blamed furnace."

Lee, after yawning hugely, responded, "Oh, I don't know. I find the bit of bite in the air welcome, as long as we can scrooch on the couch like this. The cold makes snuggling more fun." He reached a lazy paw up to his wife's neck and stroked it gently, eliciting a rough approximation of a purr.

"Hmh. That's fine for you two, but I don't have anyone to . . . what was that word you used?"

"Scrooch?"

"Right. I don't have anyone to scrooch with. I have to rely on extra layers."

Debbye caught Lee's paw and pulled it around where she could give it a soft kiss. She looked over at Wendy and said, with a bit of concern tingeing her voice, "That's a sad thing."

"Eh. I get by."

"I can see that. You're a strong furson, Wendy." She laced her fingers with her husband's, and hugged him close. He snuggled deeper into her lap and closed his eyes the rest of the way.

The vixen's muzzle fur fluffed slightly in a small blush. "Maybe I'm just hardheaded."

"No, I don't think so." Debbye marked her place, closed the book, and laid it aside. She resumed playing with Lee's headfur. "You have a lot of depth of character. I picked up on that shortly after we got here."

Wendy wasn't all that comfortable with this topic. "I don't know how you could tell something like that. I don't feel like . . . I don't think I have much . . . well, strength, to use your word." She put her own book beside her in the chair and pulled her feet underneath her, wrapping the voluminous robe a little tighter. "I think if I did, I wouldn't be here at all."

"Perhaps. Or maybe you're here _because_ of your strength."

"I don't see that."

"You had the strength to strike out on your own. Most furs are happy to just go with the flow, put in their eight hours, hit the bar for a while, and do it again the next day."

Wendy didn't respond. She had that 'long' look in her eye, gazing at nothing.

"Wendy, can I ask you a personal question?"

Their gazes met again. ". . . . . How personal?"

"Well . . . it's a relationship question."

She heaved a long sigh. "I guess," she said. "Shoot."

"You said you don't have anyone to scrooch with. I'm wondering if that's a personal choice, or a result of unfavorable circumstances."

Wendy looked at her paws lying in her lap. "Well." She repositioned herself and leaned her head on her fist. "That's a tough question."

"I'm sorry. You don't have to answer if you think it's none of my business."

"Actually . . ." She licked her lips and caught Debbye's eye. "Actually, I've kinda-sorta been trying to fill the position."

"Oh, really?" Debbye's eyes sparked with interest. "Anyone I know?"

"Um. Yes."

The squirrel grinned. "But you aren't telling?"

Wendy squirmed a little. "Oh, I don't know. See, he doesn't really know how I feel. We sort of, well, I guess you'd say we tease each other a lot. And we've had some pretty deep conversations. But he's a really private type. He's got a lot of . . . history." Her voice dropped much lower as she continued, "Kinda the way I do."

Lee spoke up. " 'Every saint has a past, and every sinner a future.' Oscar Wilde said that."

Debbye giggled. "I thought you'd fallen asleep."

He still hadn't opened his eyes. "If I didn't, it wasn't for lack of effort on your part, dear wife."

"Eh. One does what one can." She looked back at Wendy. "He's right, though. Most furs have a good bit of history when they reach this point in life. It would be a bit boring otherwise."

Wendy had her doubts. "I think 'boring' would have been preferable in my case. Anyway, I've been looking for an opportunity to feel him out, maybe find out if there's really anything there, but he hasn't been around in a few days."

"So you've been keeping track of him, then?"

"You know, you're awfully inquisitive this morning."

"What can I say? It's a dreary sort of day. I'm bored." And she gave Wendy a smile and a wink.

Wendy's gaze strayed to the soft, rounded outlines of Debbye's robe, but she knew better than to read anything into her gesture. _Which is a shame when you think about it. I could come up with any number of creative ways to keep the three of us from getting bored, without ever leaving the house. Or the upstairs, for that matter._ She sighed again and her muzzle curled down a little in mild frustration. _Terrific._ _Now __that__ will be on my mind the rest of the day._

Lee opened one eye at his wife and said, "Speaking of our children . . ."

Debbye raised an eyebrow. "How were we speaking of our children?"

"I'm changing the subject. You know what Linda told me when we talked this morning?"

"Oh. Okay. What's that?"

"She says Pop-pop won't make squishy crackers for her. She wants me to come show him how."

Debbye leaned her head back in a clear laugh. Wendy asked, "What's a 'squishy cracker'?"

Lee stretched briefly and sat up. "You ever put peanut butter on crackers?"

"Sometimes. It isn't one of my favorites. If I'm gonna have nuts, I like real nuts, not processed ones."

"Okay. You take one of those round snack crackers, a Ritz or something similar, and put enough peanut butter on it to make a not-too-thin layer. Then put another one on top and squeeze them together slowly and carefully until the peanut butter squishes out all around the edge and through the little holes in the top. Then you lick off the excess, and, lastly, eat the cracker sandwich. It's marvelously messy, and Linda loves them."

Wendy snorted a laugh. "Sounds easy enough. How come 'Pop-pop' can't make them?"

"I doubt that his ability has anything to do with it," said Debbye, with a gleam in her eye. "He just doesn't want to deal with cleaning up."

"Oh. So what does he . . ."

They heard a light knock on the door, and Ellen walked in and stood by Wendy. She took a deep breath. "Okay. The first call was from Rob. I totally spaced a date we had last night, and he isn't too happy about it. While we were talking I got beeped, and it was Mr. Luscus returning your call about the furnace. He'll be out here inside the hour. While I was talking with _him_, I got beeped again." She turned to Debbye. "Your father wants you to call him whenever it's convenient. Something about an old plushie named Mary."

"Mary? You mean Marie?"

"Yeah, right. That's it, Marie."

"What about Marie?"

"I think he said they lost it."

"AHHH!" Debbye jumped up and ran for the phone. Wendy and Ellen watched her race out of the room, then closed their muzzles and looked at Lee. Wendy said, "You want to enlighten us?"

He rubbed his eyes, sat up, and leaned against the back of the chaise. "I'll give you the short version. Marie is a small, plush kitten. Debbye got her from her grandmother on the occasion of her second birthday. She was white all over with blue eyes, and Debbye loved her above all other things. When she got too old for plushies, Debbye's mother put Marie in a box in the attic. A couple of years ago, while visiting her folks, we were going through some of her old things and the box came to light. Well, as soon as Linda saw it, she grabbed it, and they've been inseparable ever since."

Wendy snickered. "A thirty-plus-year-old plushie? Is there anything left of it?"

"Well, certainly none of the original fur. Marie has several patches, is missing an ear, and her tail is a good bit shorter than it was to begin with. But Linda won't do too much or go too far without her."

"Geez, it's just a plushie," said Ellen.

Lee gave her a stern look. "Have you ever read The Velveteen Rabbit?"

Ellen frowned and shook her head, but Wendy said, "I have." And she smiled.

A slight answering smile crept onto Lee's face. "You understand, then."

"Well I don't," said Ellen. She put both paws on her hips and looked back and forth between the two older furs. "What's the big secret?"

Wendy looked up at her and said, "Marie is real."

Ellen clearly did not get it. "Huh?"

The vixen got out of the chair and went over to the bookcase beside the big window. She looked at one of the lower shelves for a minute, said, "Ah-ha!" and pulled out a slim volume. Giving it to Ellen, she said, "Go find a quiet place and read this."

"What is it?" She looked at the cover. "The Velveteen Rabbit. This is a _kid's_ book!"

"And if you didn't read it when you were a kid, you need to read it now. So hop." And, as Ellen made her way to the door, Wendy called, "Oh, here! You'll need this." She plucked a box of tissues off the mantle and thrust it into Ellen's free paw. The mink eyed her dubiously, but Wendy insisted. "Trust me on this, okay?"

"Whatever. I've never cried over a book in my life, and I don't plan to start now."

"Just read it. And let me know when you've finished."

"If you say so." Wendy could tell she was unimpressed.

"I'll deal with Karl when he gets here." She pulled her robe up close to her neck. "If we don't freeze first."

##

_** 11:25am ** _

"Beats me." Wendy threw up her paws. "Maybe Martin did something to it when he was here the other day."

Karl shook his massive head. "I doubt that. Installing a thermocouple is one of the simplest pieces of maintenance you can perform on a furnace. Even at his most scatterbrained, he could hardly mess it up."

Karl set his toolbox down beside the huge apparatus and flipped the double locks open. "I'll let you know shortly."

"Okay. Thanks for coming out on short notice. Again."

He just gave her a knowing smile and started testing the gas-metering system. Wendy headed back to the library, but changed her mind and wandered down the hall to the rear of the huge house.

##

_** 11:40am ** _

She was puttering around in the kitchen when she heard the faint rumble of the fan kicking on. Putting a paw to one of the registers, she felt air flow, and in less than a minute, _warm_ air flow. _He's done it again. That guy is good._ She went back to her preparations.

A scant half-minute later, Karl came into the kitchen. She looked at him, a tiny frown on her brow. "That was quick. How did you know where to find me?"

He shrugged and smiled. "Could be deduction. Could be that I followed your scent here. Could be that you hum to yourself when you cook. Could be . . ."

"Okay, okay, I get the idea." She couldn't help but return his smile, just a little. "Thank you for keeping us from freezing."

"Freezing? It's almost ten degrees outside, and warmer than that in here. You would hardly freeze."

"No, _you_ would hardly freeze." The big fur had arrived dressed in light pants and a short-sleeved work shirt with the Fixit Shop logo over the pocket. No hat, no coat, and he didn't seem at all uncomfortable. "Just looking at the way you're not dressed makes me cold."

"You forget: I'm an arctic species. Ten degrees is a gentle afternoon in late spring."

"Ahuh." She loaded the automatic chopper and turned it on. "Well, I'm not arctic, and I love my creature comforts. Especially heat. So I'm glad you got it going. What was wrong with it, by the by?"

"Just some clogged lines. Easy to find, easy to fix. Got anything else that needs attention while I'm here?"

"Since you brought it up, the big freezer is acting like a 'frost-free' again."

"Intermittent cold?"

"Yeah. And it's getting a little too intermittent to suit me. I kept meaning to mention it."

"I'll take a look at it, then." He observed her recipe ingredients, and asked, "Nut meringues? Again?"

"Yep. Debbye's all torn up about them. She fusses if I keep them on-paw because she says they'll ruin her waistline, then she fusses if we run out because she likes them so much. I offered her the recipe but she gave me this haunted look and turned me down. Said it would be too dangerous if she knew how to make them."

"Sounds like standard femme logic to me."

She popped him with her towel. "Stop picking on me and go do your freezer thing."

"As you wish, my lady." His face came over all grins as he walked out of the kitchen into the Rear Hall.

##


	15. Chapter 6 One Step Back Part B

**_Chapter Six – . . . . One Step Back Part B_**

##

_** 12:20pm ** _

The nut meringues were on the cooling rack and Wendy was heating up some leftover chili when Karl stalked back into the kitchen. She drew up and looked his way inquisitively. "What's got you so worked up?"

He relaxed a little and gave her that half-grin. "Is it that obvious?"

"Yes, it is. You're usually so calm and carefree, that any change the other way is going to stand out."

"Guilty as charged. Want to know why?"

"Well, my guess is it has something to do with the freezer."

He nodded. "I know how to fix it now."

"And that makes you upset?"

"In this case, yes."

"Okay. Soooo . . . how do you fix it?"

"Jack it up and run a new one in under it."

She snorted. "That bad? Can't you just repair the condenser, or whatever it was you did last time?"

His muzzle twisted wryly. "A system will only support so many bandages before it enters a situation of diminishing returns. What that freezer needs is new insulation, a new compressor, new condenser, new ducting, new wiring, new motors, new mounts, new hinges, new sheathing. Get the picture?"

"A-huh. So are you trying to tell me it would be better to just buy a whole new system?"

"I'm afraid so. I can patch it and get it working, but for how long? It will just break again."

"Can you rebuild the critical parts?"

"Yes. But it's a matter of the entire thing being basically weak. You sew new patches on old, fragile cloth, it will tear around the patch and make the hole bigger. That's a rough analogy of what you have going here."

She bowed her head in thought for a moment, and asked, "What can you do today to get it running?"

"Oh, it's running now. I still need to put new regulators on each side of the compressor and swap out the motor. However . . ."

"And how long will it run before it breaks again?"

"I haven't the faintest idea. Maybe three months. Maybe a week. With a system in this condition, it's not possible to forecast with any reliability. However . . ."

"Well I can't afford to buy a new one, so I don't have any other options."

He sighed. "It _is_ your decision. I'll get going on the motor."

"You want some lunch first?"

That perked him up. "You know, I do work better on a full stomach."

She snorted. "I didn't say I could fill _you_ up. This is what I've got." And she indicated the pot of chili.

"It'll do. I can supplement it with some of the PowerBars in the truck."

"Bleahh."

He caught her eye and grinned. "You're too picky."

"Bleahh. And I'll stand by that." She looked in the pantry and pulled out a large can of pear halves. "How about a fruit salad instead? I can't bear the thought of you chasing chili with peanut-butter protein bars."

"Sounds good. Need any help?"

"You can sit there at the table and keep me company."

"I'd like that." He sat and crossed one leg over the other at the knee, arranging his considerable tail to the side. "What are your guests up to today?"

"Not much. Probably still in the library. The weather isn't cooperating, and under the _best_ of circumstances they aren't really comfortable trekking around with their entourage." The wheels in her head started turning. She had him as a captive audience, at least for a while. This meal would likely be a good chance to start finding out how he felt about dating; specifically, dating her. She'd have to approach the topic obliquely, carefully, work it gingerly into the conversation, to avoid a repeat of the last time his personal relationships came up. She didn't want to put him off, or scare him, or dredge up any more memories about his dead girlfriend, or. . . . .

"By the way, Wendy, do you have any plans for Saturday night?"

She dropped the ladle into the chili pot, splashing a bit of it on the stove top, and her back jerked straight up. She turned around to stare at him. "Pardon me?"

. . .

Debbye put her book down and tapped Lee on the nose. "Hey, Sleepyhead."

He turned his face toward hers and opened his eyes. "I wasn't a… a…" A huge yawn intruded on his protestation. ". . . . . asleep."

"Of course you weren't, dear. But I need to get up, and I can't do that with your head in my lap."

"Oh. Right. Sorry." He sat up and leaned against the back of the chaise, stretching and yawning again. "Sure is a sleepy day." Glancing toward the window, he noted that the light, steady drizzle had not abated. "Hey, is that warm air I feel?"

"Uh-huh. Karl must have gotten the furnace fixed." She got up and padded toward the door. "Think I'll change into something a little less comfortable while I'm upstairs."

"I like that idea. Maybe I can help you," he said, grinning.

"Hmm. Maybe you can." She paused at the door. "But you'll have to catch me first." And she darted down the Main Hall.

Lee was only a few meters behind her, but was having trouble catching up because one of his feet had fallen asleep and the prickles of returning circulation gave him a limp. She shrieked with laughter as they raced up the stairs.

. . .

"Come in, Lance."

"Roger, Roger."

"Put a wad in it, Concolor, this is no time for your lame jokes."

"Sorry, Rog. What's up?"

"Got unknowns turning in the drive. Two sedans, late models, and one van, all of them black."

"Local plates?"

"Can't see yet. Hang on." There was a two-second delay, then, "Huh. They've got U.S. Government tags."

"Truefoot give you any kind of heads-up?"

"Not me."

"Right. Fiske! O'Civet!"

The two point-furs responded.

"Fiske, you still in the tower?"

"Affirmative."

"Sighted the bogeys yet?"

"Affirmative."

"O'Civet, you stay with the Evanses. Don't let 'em out of your sight."

"Roger that."

"Lock and load, guys. These fellows may be for real, or just a really good imitation. And Roger?"

"Yah?"

"Better suit up."

. . .

Karl apologized. "Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. I asked, is your schedule free Saturday? See, the volunteer fire department is hosting a hayride. Horse-drawn wagons, lots of quilts, the works. It starts with a covered-dish dinner at six, and the hayride itself runs from seven-thirty until nine. The weather is supposed to be perfect for it."

"A hayride? I – uh – don't really know anything about hayrides."

"Well . . . Have you seen a hay cart?"

"Uh – sure. Those big tall things on wheels out in the pastures? But they're always hooked onto a truck."

"For everyday work, yes, they are. But this is one of those hearken-back-to-the-old-days events the locals are so fond of. That's why they have horses."

"Oh. So what do you do on a hayride?"

His grin stretched to both ears. "You ride in the hay."

She shook her spoon at him. "You're gonna catch it, mister."

"Sorry. I can't resist a straight line." He leaned forward and propped his elbows on the table. "You climb up onto the pile of hay, which is usually covered with blankets, pick a likely spot, and sort of make a little nest. Then you and . . . and a companion lie back and watch the stars and talk or . . . whatever."

Wendy felt a sudden need to turn back to the stove. "I see."

. . .

The short cavalcade stopped in front of the house and three furs in dark suits, a feline and two canids, got out of the cars. They conferred briefly and made to walk to the porch, but a voice from the house commanded, "Halt!"

They froze.

"Be advised that you are covered by high-power automatic weapons. Any hostile move will be answered with extreme prejudice. Do you understand?"

All three nodded.

"Then state your business."

. . .

Debbye glanced over at her husband when they heard the knock on their door, to make sure he was decent, then answered, "Yes?"

Ken O'Civet opened the door. "Mr. and Mrs. Evans, hello. Just checking to see if you both were here. Please stay in your room."

"What's going on?" Debbye demanded.

"Some unidentified vehicles have arrived out front. We're checking them out now."

Lee and Debbye looked at each other and hopped over to the dresser for their own weapons.

. . .

Karl prompted her. "So what do you think?"

She positioned the can of pears under the can opener and pressed the 'ON' button. "Um – have you . . ." _Don't blush! Don't you __dare__ blush!_ But her self-admonition did little good. "have you been on a hayride before?"

"Nope. But it sounded like fun."

"Ah . . ." She was trying to get her muzzle fur to un-fluff, rubbing the side of her face on her shoulder as nonchalantly as she could manage. "I, um, I see." _Why am I reacting this way?_

He noticed her discomfort and allowed himself a small smile. "So, what do you say? You game?"

"You're inviting me to go with you?"

"Yes, I am. Does that bother you?"

"_**No!**_ … Uh, no, I'm, ah, okay with that." She took the can off the opener and poured the contents into a large mixing bowl.

"Does that mean you'll go?"

"Sure." She began arranging the pears on a serving platter. "You're right. It, uh, it does sound like fun." She whirled around to face him. "Karl . . . . ."

He waited for her to finish, an expectant look on his face.

She chewed on her lip for several seconds, not meeting his eyes, then came over and sat down across from him. "Karl, are you ever going to stop surprising me?"

His look morphed into an amused expression. "Anything's possible. To what are you referring in this instance?"

"I . . ." She gave a small _huff_ and turned those golden browns on him. "I've been trying to come up with a safe way to approach the subject of dating." A sudden panic swept her at the startled look that crossed his face when she said that. "I'm sorry! That was wrong, wasn't it? This isn't a date, is it? I'm sorry, I . . ."

He reached across and laid a paw on her forearm. The touch left her becalmed.

. . .

The three furs in the drive, moving verrrrry slowly, extracted and presented their credentials. Lance moved down the steps, Roger behind him with an automatic rifle. Both wore full riot gear: semi-rigid body armor, microcrystalline-CBN-Kevlar helmet, breathing unit, the works. The solid puma took their ID's, reminding them that they were being covered from an elevated position, and read off the names.

"Major Andrew Caracal?"

The feline raised a paw.

"Sergeant Dan Rover?"

The taller of the two canines indicated that he belonged to that name.

"So that would make you Corporal Alex Collie," he said, nodding to the other canine, who nodded back.

"Who's driving the van?"

Agent Caracal motioned to the van and the driver, a short spotted skunk, got out and came over to join the group, giving his name as Corporal Samuel Meffitt.

Lance indicated the group, saying, "Keep 'em covered, Roger. I'll check this out." And he went back in the house.

. . .

Ellen stuck her head out the library door. "Lee? Debbye?" She took a few steps toward the front of the house, coming even with the Lower Passage. "Wendy? Where is everyone?" That's when she saw the heavily-armed figure in the black exoskeleton come in the front door. She gasped, sprang into the Passage, and headed for the ornate spiral staircase at a dead run.

. . .

"Yes, Wendy, it _is_ a date. At any rate, I'd like to think so." He pulled his arm back, laced his fingers together, and propped his chin on them. "So you don't find the concept repugnant?"

She shook her head, not trusting her tongue.

"And you've been trying to figure out how to ask me?"

She nodded.

"How long have you had this . . . interest?"

"A while."

"Since before we went sight-seeing?"

Another nod.

He sent her a warm smile. "You could have brought it up any time. I've had things pretty well sorted out in my own mind for a while now, myself."

"I see." She considered the end of his nose for a few seconds. "I guess I've been a right little idiot."

"Now why would you say that?"

"Because . . . well . . . oh, I don't know." She met his eyes. "You're a hard fellow to read."

"And here I thought we males were an open book." He got a funny look just after he said that, and shook his head slightly. "It's your lot that likes to be mysterious."

"Be that as it may, what you said really surprised me."

"Why?"

"You were . . . well, not distant, exactly, but, maybe sort of . . . standoffish. When we took our little trip? I mean, you know, separate rooms and all. You were a perfect gentlefur. Maybe a little too perfect. And I just got the impression that you . . . you were doing it to . . . to humor me or something. You never even _hinted_ that you might want to get closer. It was almost as if there were an invisible chaperone standing in the background."

"So popping that invitation at you out of the blue put you off?"

"I wouldn't say it put me off. I just wasn't expecting it, given our . . . recent experiences."

"I see." He didn't say anything for a bit as he stroked the side of his muzzle with one paw. Wendy got up and went back to the stove, turning off the burner when she saw that the chili was bubbling. She got some lettuce, cream cheese and cherries out of the refrigerator and started assembling the salads.

. . .

Ellen burst into the Evans' room, and just managed to swallow a scream as she skidded to a halt. She was staring down the bore of a really, really big gun. From her perspective, it was a cannon.

"Ellen!" cried Debbye, "You okay?"

She stared at Debbye, eyes wide. "There's a guy! All black! Got stuff on! A big rifle! Front door!"

O'Civet lowered his weapon. "Yes, Ms. Vison. That's Agent Concolor."

". . . . . . You . . . you mean that's _Lance_?"

"Yes, miss. He's dealing with some bogeys out front, and felt that suiting up would be the best course of action."

"That's a suit? Damnation! He looks like the Terminator in that getup!" Then she noticed that the guests had donned their impact shrouds and were wearing both their knives and their sidearms. "Wow." One paw found its way to her throat. "This is, like, the real deal, isn't it?"

"That's possible, Ellen," said Lee. "We don't know yet. But it's best to be prepared."

The bodyguard's headset chirped. He put a paw to his ear and said, "O'Civet here."

. . .

Michael Truefoot's exasperation came over the phone quite clearly. "No, Lance, I'm serious. He just showed up in my office not ten minutes ago."

"Well, if that doesn't beat all. You'd think they'd show a little more respect for _our_ procedures if they want our cooperation in executing _theirs_."

"Yes, that makes sense to me, too. Nevertheless, they _are_ with the Department of Defense, and they _are_ authorized to be there. So give them whatever assistance they require."

They signed off and Lance went back out to the porch. "It's okay, Rog. They're legit.

. . .

Karl said, "Would you believe I was feeling a lot like that myself?"

She half-turned and gave him the eye. "Like what?"

"Hesitant. Unsure. Skittish. I didn't want to scare you off, either. Not after our conversation that day you dropped by the creek."

She grinned. "Don't you mean 'dropped in the creek'?"

"Your words." But he returned her grin.

She nodded. "Yeah. You won't believe how often and how badly I've beaten myself up because of that."

"Now, Wendy, that could hardly be construed as your fault. Admittedly, Phoebe was a huge part of my life. But that was many years ago, Phoebe is gone, and that phase of my life is past." He rose and came over to stand behind her, watching as she put the last of the salads together. "And you're here." He put both paws on her shoulders.

"Yes, I am, aren't I?" She turned to look up at him. _Waaay_ up at him. "Could you move back a step? This is craning my neck."

"Sorry." He retreated. "Better?"

"Eh. In one aspect, yeah, but only that one." Her confidence seemed to have returned; she decided it was time to take a little bit more control of the situation. "I can smell you better up close."

"_Smell_ me?"

"Uh-huh. You smell good."

"Most folks don't care for the smell of a mustelid. Are you just toying with me?" he asked around a grin.

She took the platter of salads and the bowl of chili to the table. "Not yet," she tossed over her shoulder. "Give me a couple of minutes, though, and I'll come up with something." She turned back to Karl when Ellen entered the kitchen from the Rear Hall.

"Hey, Wendy? This guy says he needs to talk to you." She indicated the dark-suited fur with her, then stood by, obviously unsure of the situation.

Wendy looked him up and down and asked, "May I help you?"

He held up a government ID and a badge. "I'm Major Andrew Caracal with the Defense Investigative Services. And you are Ms. Wendy Vixxen Wylde."

"Um . . . yes. Would you like to sit down?"

"No, thank you, ma'am." He gave Karl a keen appraisal. The scan was returned, with change. "We're here to look into the attacks on Lee Evans. I wonder if I might ask you a few questions."

"We?"

"Yes, ma'am. They put three of us on this case."

Karl asked, "Why is the Department of Defense investigating the attempted murder of a civilian?"

He turned to Karl and said, "Excuse me, sir, would you be Mr. Karl Luscus?"

Karl's brow knit. "Yes."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Luscus. You were also in the party that was most recently attacked."

"Yes, I was."

The tall cat cocked his head and squinted at Karl. "The report has you listed as a wolverine."

"I _am_ a wolverine."

Agent Caracal gave him a steady look for a few seconds and shrugged. "Fine. That means we know for certain where all of you are now."

"And this would be apropos of what?"

"Keeping you alive."

Wendy's jaw dropped. "I beg your pardon?"

"Yes, ma'am. Are you fully briefed on the situation with the Knights of the Pure Strain?"

"If you're asking whether I know they're the ones that attacked my friends, then yes."

"Well, while at first it seemed as though the attacks were random, a small piece of a larger pattern of violence on the part of the Knights, the fact that Mr. Evans was attacked twice in a short period of time, by members of not only the same organization, but the same cell in that organization, led us to conclude that they were not, as they wanted us to believe, haphazard, but that they were, in fact, targeting him."

Wendy had to chase that sentence around for a few seconds until she could get a rope on it. "So . . . you think they are after Lee specifically?"

"Yes. We think the broadcast propaganda and the other murders are a smokescreen, a ruse to misdirect us from the conspiracy's actual purpose."

"Whatever for?"

"You mean," he clarified, "Why do they want to kill Mr. Evans?"

"Yes. Is he really that important?"

"Yes, ma'am. His position is extremely sensitive, and vital to a number of top secret projects."

Wendy was terribly confused. "Well . . . okay, but . . . why would a bunch of species purists care about that?"

"I can answer that one for you, Wendy," said Karl as he tapped her shoulder lightly.

She turned to the big wolverine. "I'm listening."

Casting a glance at the federal agent, he said, "Apart from their alliances with criminal gangs in this country, the Knights have ties to at least three terrorist organizations."

"_Terrorists!" _Wendy and Ellen chimed in at the same time.

He nodded.

Agent Caracal gave a satisfied nod. "You've done your homework. The report mentioned that you'd been keeping an extensive file on the Knights."

"That's right."

"Would you mind telling me why?"

"Personal reasons."

"Ah. Well, as you say, you _are_ a wolverine. A grudge, then." He seemed satisfied with that explanation.

Karl considered that for a moment, then said, "Perhaps the ghost of one. It was a long time ago. But these furs are a danger, to the country, the culture, and to an extent, the entire world."

"My point exactly. That's why we were dispatched."

Wendy's voice showed a bit of strain as she asked, "Are you planning to stay here, too?"

"No. We are planning to move everyone to a secure location. Ms. Jones and her daughter are already safe. We don't propose to give the assassins another chance at Mr. Evans. They're packing right now."

**_"What?"_**

"Our instructions are to take the Evanses, and whoever else wishes to go, to a safe house where they will stay until the inquest on Monday. Then they will disappear for a while."

"What about their children?"

"Their children and their parents are under protection already. We secured them as soon as we determined the true thrust of the attacks."

"That's a commendable strategy," said Karl, "but I think you've missed a few steps."

"How so?"

"No names of real furs show up in the transmissions I intercepted, and I copped quite a few. There were no specific targets alluded to in any way. But a heavy recruitment push, coupled with a 'purification' effort, was the primary objective. I deduced that the plan has been cooking for months."

The agent murmured, "You really have been busy." In a more normal voice, he continued, "But you don't have all the data. We've monitored quite a few lines in the last week, and early yesterday morning we hit pay dirt. The incident in which you took part was mentioned in a series of e-mail exchanges, with specific reference to those involved, the upcoming inquest, and what they could do to stop it. They know there are five of you, and the names of Mr. and Mrs. Evans and Ms. Jones. Your name was not mentioned, but a fairly accurate description was."

"I see. Any thoughts on how they got the information?"

"Not at this time." He pulled his watch out and looked at it. "Would you mind accompanying me to the Evans' suite?"

Wendy looked at the table. "Can we eat some lunch first?"

"Sure. Go right ahead. It will likely be several minutes before they're ready to go. But we need to discuss the procedures with all of you."

"Would you, um, like to join us?"

He smiled. "I appreciate the hospitality, but no, thank you. We ate before we got here. You go ahead." He put a paw to his ear and spoke softly to one of his partners.

Wendy and Karl looked at each other and shrugged, then sat down to eat.

##

_** 1:15pm ** _

Watching as the last of the small convoy of vehicles made its way down the long drive, Wendy stood leaning against the oversized front door, reflecting on the events of the day. _They sure move fast, I'll give 'em that. They had Lee and Debbye packed and loaded in twenty-three minutes, flat_. She was going to miss that pair. They'd made sure to leave her several different types of contact information.

Karl, having assured himself again of her intentions in reference to the hayride, had swapped out whatever it was he needed to on the freezer, and left for another jobsite. Ellen was even now readying herself for an early date with her boyfriend. She'd had to take a long shower and wash her face thoroughly, having cried herself silly over the 'dumb old kid book'. Wendy giggled every time she looked at the girl.

But then, Wendy was slightly euphoric all around, and giggled at a lot of things. She found herself anticipating this hayride thing with a good bit of relish. It had some distinct possibilities.

She went inside and closed the door, then walked back to the kitchen to start preparations for the party of five that had scheduled the early dinner slot.

##


	16. Chapter 6 One Step Back Part C

**_Chapter Six – . . . . One Step Back Part C_**

**##**

_** 2:20pm ** _

Jacinto Bassarisca took a great deal of pride in his work, and it showed, especially to anyfur who knew what sorts of details to look for. As such, he always made it a point to contact the state inspector as soon as he had a good idea of when he would finish a job. He'd placed that call just before lunch, and the inspector, who knew of Mr. Bassirisca from several other projects, agreed to come out the following morning. The ringtail liked to get that part done as expeditiously as possible, since he couldn't (legally) get paid until the inspector put his stamp of approval on the work.

And with his young family waiting at home, he preferred getting his pay in a timely manner. They had gotten used to fairly regular meals since moving here, and he wanted to keep it that way. This job was more of a strain than usual, what with all the gun-toting suits crawling through the place. It reminded him too much of the Mexican secret police, and tended to put him off his feed.

He walked along the back end of the Main Hall and cut over to the small door that led to Wendy's office. Knocking lightly, he waited until he heard, "Come in." He opened the door, but did not step into the small room.

"I feeneesh." He held up his bag of tools, showing her that it was full. "You come see?"

Wendy gave him a smile. "Sure. Lead the way." He left his tools in her office, and they walked back upstairs.

She stopped in the doorway and looked around, venting a low whistle after a few seconds. "Very, very, _very_ nice, Señor Bassirisca." The room was completely ready for her to decorate. All the woodwork gleamed, the plastered walls were a field of creamy, seamless perfection, and the new window had not a speck of dust marring the view. If one knew where to look, the difference in the old and new flooring could be noted, with some effort, but he had matched the grain pattern well. Wendy intended to put a large rug there anyway.

Hearing a small noise, she walked over to the short hall and poked her head into the bathroom. Jacinto's oldest son, Geran, a small boy of about ten, was vigorously polishing the brass on the old tub. He stopped when she came in, staring with his huge, black eyes. His tail wrapped itself around his middle, and he clutched the tip tightly.

Mr. Bassirisca peered around Wendy and spoke a few quick words in Spanish to the boy, who replied, "Pero ella es tan bonita, Papa!"

The slim vixen smiled at him and said, "Gracias! Usted parece agradable, también."

He blushed and giggled. Jacinto's brow furrowed, and he motioned for the youngster to follow him. After ushering Geran out into the hall, he came back to Wendy. "I sorry my son rude."

"Oh, that's okay. I'm tickled he'd think that."

Jacinto's face clearly showed his confusion. "He no tickle. I see."

Wendy chuckled. "No, that's not what I mean." She thought hard for a few seconds and said, "Me adulan que . . . él tuvo gusto de mis . . . miradas."

It was the ringtail's turn to grin. "Bueno!"

"Gracias. But I'm afraid my Spanish is awfully rusty." Upon seeing his frown return, she stated, "Hablo su lenguaje mal."

He shook his head. "No. You try. I happy you try. Many no try. Make fun, laugh to me."

"Well, sir, there are many idiots in this world. I'm sorry."

He made patting motions. "Ees okay. You okay." He indicated the new tile on the wall. "You like?"

She nodded. "Very much. Es hermoso. Gracias."

He gave her a small bow. "De nada. Eenspector be here . . . mañana?"

"Tomorrow."

"Si. Eenspector here tomorrow, look at work. Sign beell."

"Señor Bassirisca, I don't need the inspector to tell me it's okay to pay you." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a short stack of hundreds which she passed to the ringtail. He received it with many small bows and words of thanks.

"Hey, don't thank me! You did a much better job than I would have, in about one-fifth the time. And you can bet I'll be calling you when I need the rest of the units done."

It took him a couple of seconds to process what she'd said, but then he grinned broadly. "I see. Es bueno. You say to amigos?"

"Tell my friends? Oh, absolutely."

That one slipped by him. "… ¿Que?"

"Yes, I will. Si. Gladly. Con mucho gusto."

"Ah." The grin returned. "Gracias."

##

_**5:30pm ** _

The sun slanted calmly through the getting-on-toward-bare branches of the venerable forest, and tried to warm the earth where it lay beside a small pond. Two deer had come to drink, one keeping watch while the other quenched its thirst. It was quiet here, silent and undeveloped, as yet unnoticed by the noise and bustle of civilization.

Both deer came to full alert, turning their keen ears to the north. They held the pose only for a couple of seconds, then bounded away into the forest. Shortly thereafter, a large, four-wheel-drive vehicle crunched into the clearing and came to a stop not too far from the edge of the pond. Six furs got out.

"Whatcha think, Mr. Damien?"

The tall Irish Setter turned his penetrating gaze around the perimeter of the clearing, noting the density of the forest. "This is good." He walked over to the pond, measuring the area in his head. "Good job, Fallon. Not too difficult to get to, but out of the way and hard to find. And you say the closest house is a klick off?"

"Klick-and-a-half."

The red head nodded, his long ears flopping gently.

Fallon, a mink whose parents hailed from London's East End, pointed west. "Highway 116 is a couple of klicks over that way. North Branch Road is even farther in the opposite direction. And there's nothin' to the south for close to four klicks. It's reeeeal private."

"Okay. Set up the stake over there. We'll put the fire here." He let loose with a malicious chuckle. "Let's have ourselves a little barbecue."

##

_** Friday 23 September 2016, 11:20am ** _

The inspector, John Smith, a short, thin canine of uncertain ancestry, had turned up precisely at ten and gotten straight to work. His forms were lengthy and meticulous, as was his methodology. He checked the flatness of the floor, the straightness of the molding, the air flow around the window, the glazing of the panes, the heat gain through the glass, the thickness of the paint, the width of the grouted slots in the tiling, the air for residual aldehydes, and on and on and on and on and **_on_**. And not once did he crack a smile.

Wendy had given up trying to get a civil response out of him a mere ten minutes into his visit, and had been puttering around the kitchen for over an hour. She had some ideas involving cardomom, and wanted to experiment. So he didn't exactly startle her when he marched into the room, but it did interrupt her chain of thought rather abruptly.

"I have completed my evaluation. The work is satisfactory. Sign here, please." And he passed her several forms.

She took them and leafed through them briefly. Boilerplate stuff, very official-looking, and very boring. She signed on the line eight times.

"Thanks for stopping by Mr. Smith. I appreciate your attention to detail." She thought that might be the kind of thing he'd like to hear.

"Thank you. There are few who do." He put the papers back into the folder, and that back into the correct cubby in his briefcase. "And while we are in that line of thought, can you tell me who did the wiring?"

"The wiring?"

"Yes. There are no recent records indicating that the wiring had been re-run, yet the outlets are new, and grounded. I took the liberty of checking in the attic, and noted the emplacement of a new breaker box. Has the paperwork simply not been filed yet?"

"I . . . I don't know about any paperwork. I did the wiring."

His muzzle dropped open and he took a step back. ". . . . . . . . . _What_ did you say?"

Wendy did _not_ pick up any good vibes off that reaction. "I did the wiring. I got a handbook, see? And some professional advice? And I went to work on it. It was a pain, but I didn't really have any . . ."

He held up a preemptive paw. "Are you a licensed electrical contractor?"

"Uh . . . no."

Wendy almost shrank from the righteous indignation on his face. "How could you be so _stupid?_ Do you know _nothing?_ Did you never take the time to check the codes and laws? You could go to _prison_ for that!"

"_**WHAT?**_ What are you talking about?"

"I am talking about the Unified Code." The way he said the words made it sound like Holy Scripture. "It is a basic rule that only qualified electricians are allowed to do that sort of work. You could have been killed!"

"I could slip on the soap in the bathroom and kill myself just as dead," she replied incredulously. "And as long as I did the wiring right, what difference does it make?"

The look he gave her reminded her of some of the looks she used to get from Mr. Roden back at StrongArm. "That is just the sort of uninformed comment I would expect from an amateur. It does make a difference. And you filed no paperwork?" She shook her head. "Then, you have no document control, no traceability, no files at the courthouse, nothing official for the tax assessor, no inspection records, and no assurance that it was done correctly. Your insurance company will surely revoke your policy. And now you will have to pay to have it inspected, and if it is not one hundred percent correct it will have to be ripped out and re-installed. Plus there is a fee for late filing of the paperwork, and a fine for not using a licensed contractor."

She swallowed a couple of times and licked her lips. "How – how much of a fine?"

"That would depend on many variables, such as how much time has elapsed. When did you do the work?"

"Back in the summer. Mostly in late July and August."

"Then the fine should not be too stiff. Probably no more than five thousand."

Wendy staggered and dropped into a chair.

"The fee will be another fifteen hundred. And the inspection will cost you several thousand as well."

She was having trouble assimilating all this, and looked up at him dully.

"In the meantime, I will have to issue you a restraint notice. You may not make any further alterations to the structure until it is inspected. You may not lease, rent, or sublet the building or any part of it. You may not engage in any business activities that involve interaction with the public. You may not . . ."

"Wait!"

He looked at her.

"I've got some furs coming over for supper tonight."

"Friends of yours?"

"Uh . . . guests at the café."

He shook his head decisively. "No, you do not. Not now. Possibly not ever." He flipped through his case and pulled out a yellow sheet. He scribbled on it briefly and stamped it with an embosser. "I will post this on the front door. This building is quarantined until further notice."

And he left.

Wendy just sat there, stunned, for quite a while.

_Fifteen hundred._

_Five thousand. _

_Several thousand. _

_Closed. _

_No business._

She still couldn't quite believe it. Finally, she shook herself out, got up, and placed a call to Harper Fenton's office.

Several minutes later, after speaking with Harry's partner, she became even more despondent. He was, if anything, less complimentary than the inspector had been.

She wandered upstairs and flopped out on the bed. Her head seemed stuffed full of mush. _Do I even __have__ that much cash? I'd better check the accounts._ She got up and slowly meandered back toward her office on the first floor. Halfway down the stairs, the light came on. She yanked her PA out and punched Karl's number.

. . .

"But, Karl! . . . ."

"Really, Wendy, I think everyone involved is over-reacting."

"But, Karl! . . . ."

"Those inspectors are _terminally_ anal-retentive. That's what they're paid for. I'm sure we can clear this up for a lot less than he's talking about."

"But, Karl! . . . ."

"And don't worry, since I encouraged you to do it yourself, I'll pick up the bill."

"Karl, shush! I'm under _quarantine_! He threatened to _padlock_ the _doors_! He's got me so wound up in red tape right now I can hardly breathe!"

She could hear his grin quite clearly over the phone. "And here I'd gotten the impression that you weren't into bondage."

"_**OHHHH!"**_

"Sorry! Sorry! Mea culpa. That was too good a line to pass up."

"I am _NOT_ in the _MOOD_!"

There was a silence, followed by a muffled snort. Then he said, "If you insist on supplying me with perfect straight lines, I can't guarantee my responses."

She spluttered briefly. He said, "Tell you what. I'll line up an inspector to come look at your work. If you followed the Handbook . . ."

"Which I DID! To the fucking _LETTER!"_

"Whoa. Easy there, Breezy. We'll get it all fixed, you don't have to break anything. Least of all your cranial circulatory system. Now take a few deep breaths and re-center. I've been given to understand that you do know how."

". . . . . Yes. I do."

"Then go ahead. Get it over with. Save yourself a little aggravation."

She spent a few moments getting back in control of her emotions, and resumed the conversation. "So you know an inspector?"

"I do. Let me call her and she if she's free this afternoon."

"She?"

"Yes, she. Rachel Pardalis is a femme. What of it?"

"Nothing. She somebody you know from church?"

"No."

"Where'd you meet her, then?"

"Wendy!" There was that grin again. "Are you jealous?"

". . . . . Don't be silly."

"Okay. Just checking. It so happens that Rachel was the one who inspected the Fixit Shop _before_ it was the Fixit Shop. She did good work, and I've used her several times since. Does that quell your burgeoning curiosity?"

"Um. Sure. Yeah, bring her on out. Can you really get her here today? There's a big yellow sign on the front door that basically means I can't operate the Café."

"She can take care of that. And I can take care of the fines. So please, don't worry."

She breathed a long sigh. She wasn't quite yet ready to feel relief, but it didn't seem to be too far off.

"Thanks, Karl. I owe you one."

"You're welcome. See you tomorrow night?"

"You bet."

They hung up. She closed the cover on the PA and leaned back in the chair, eyes closed and mind nearly at peace. _You know, if he truly can yank my chestnuts out of the fire, I'll have to think up some special way to thank him. . . . . ._

##

_** Saturday 24 September 2016, 12:26pm **_

The glow from the flickering monitor failed to illuminate the features of the big wolverine who sat there staring at it, only bringing a glint to his eyes. He had tracked the stream of information the worm program delivered for most of the past hour, but now his paw flashed out, stopping the flow. He highlighted the memorandum reference, and called up the text.

**- Transmission Intercept -**

**File Type: Secret**

**Security: 5-C**

**Originator: Hemanth Rajid, Director, Terrorism Interdiction, Northeast USA**

**Recipient: Colonel Cory Genetta, Undersecretary of Homeland Defense**

**Subject: Beorn Karl Gulo (Strike Force operative. Status: Reactivated)**

**Beorn Gulo, the last surviving member of Omicron Platoon (Strike Force), had been declared 'missing - presumed dead' in February 2011. His status has been altered due to his having been sighted in Boston last Wednesday 21 September. His current location is unknown. **

**We have one of the vehicles he used, and a list of several exotic metals and some two hundred and sixty highly advanced electronic components that he received at the dock. The procurement trail for the components ends eight levels back with a fictitious manufacturing firm supposedly located in Lansing, Michigan. The van he used is still being dismantled for clues as to its origin, but so far we have found nothing. Given his history of attention to detail, I doubt that we will.**

**It is the opinion of this office that every effort should be exercised to find Mr. Gulo. We feel that his enhanced abilities, coupled with his extensive knowledge of chemistry, electronics, and terrorist methodology, make him a viable threat to the security of the United States. Please advise on the preferred course of action.**

**- End Transmission -**

Karl leaned back in his chair, nodding slowly to himself. _That's about how I figured he'd play it. And I can't really blame him. As far as he knows, I'm still a wild-eyed, maniacal killing machine._ His muzzle skewed to the side in a grimace. _A pity, that._

He worked on the worm program's algorithm for a while, instructing it to find all similar communications and store copies of them in his database. Then he scored a couple of protein drinks and headed for the sub-basement. If, as he suspected, he was going to have to move on short notice, he'd better be ready. He had some research to do.

##

_** 7:30pm **_

The first stars were already beginning to peek out of the deep blue, cold sky. Wendy had her paw curled around Karl's forearm as they walked through the short grass to where the hay wagons were parked. He had a large blanket folded over one of his shoulders, and she slung a small wicker hamper from one of hers. A quiet burp escaping her throat for the second time in as many minutes, Wendy placed a paw over her mouth and glanced up at him. "Excuse me."

He smiled. "No problem where I'm concerned. That's better than letting the pressure build up."

"Thanks. I don't usually eat like that. But that venison-rabbit stew was . . . wow. I dunno. What's a good description?"

"Incredible? Incomparable? Unparalleled? Perhaps somewhat tasty?"

"_Somewhat?"_

He laughed at her response. "It was the best thing there, I'll give you that. Marianne fixed a huge pot, and there isn't even any juice left."

"Yeah, I noticed you checking for leftovers. Never saw anyfur upend an iron kettle over his mouth before."

"Never had reason to before." They stopped beside one of the huge wagons. "This looks like our ride."

She gazed up at the immense load of hay towering at least three meters over her head. "Terrific. How'd you say we were supposed to get up there?"

"The best way we can. Here, I'll give you a leg up." He held his paws down as a cup for her to step on. She placed one dainty foot in them and sprang upward while he gave her a pitch. It was a tribute to her sense of balance that she landed on her feet. Of course, she immediately sank to her hips in the loose hay, and a small cloud of dust puffed up around her. She blinked and twitched her nose several times and pawed at her whiskers to keep from sneezing.

"Okay, Karl, I'm up. How are you getting in?"

"I'm in." His voice came from behind her as he _flumphed_ into the hay, making a much deeper dent than Wendy had.

She looked back at him incredulously. "How'd you do that?"

"I have very long arms and an intimate knowledge of the principles of physics."

"Is that supposed to be an answer?"

He shrugged and grinned. "I'm good at climbing. What can I say?"

"Uh-huh. Well." She looked around at their accommodations. "Tell me again: How are we supposed to do this?"

"Just kind of scoop and pat until you have a sort of a nest, then put the quilt in it." He began following his own directions, and she copied him. Shortly, they had a comfortable depression made, and spread the quilt. They'd just gotten situated on it when a voice hollered, "Heads up!" and a small basket came sailing up onto the pile beside them.

Karl called down, "That you, Casey?"

"Yep. Me and Martha was hopin' you'd left some room in there."

"Sure thing!" He nudged Wendy with an elbow and gave her a wink, then added. "You want a rope?"

"Rope! You tryin' t' insult us?" The head and shoulders of a chunky brown squirrel popped up over the dry-straw horizon. He leapt over the two furs, settling beside the basket, closely followed by his mate, a very lean brown rabbit. Both had the beginnings of gray around their muzzles. Casey fished around in his coat pocket and produced a harmonica, which he tossed to Karl. "Seein' as how you're here, think I'll let you do th' honors."

"What did you have in mind?"

"Sorta got my ears set for 'Amblin Rose'."

"You know I can't play and sing at the same time."

"That's okay, I'll sing."

Karl grinned wickedly. "Now, Casey! I didn't come to the hayride to get abused."

"Humph." The squirrel's face squinched. "Throwin' off on my singin'. Don't know why in thunder you din't bring your skinbox."

Wendy looked at the big fur. "Skinbox? What's he talking about?"

"My banjo."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "You play the banjo, too?"

"Aw, he plays most anythin', ma'am," Casey volunteered. "Fiddle, guitar, trumpet, mandolin, piano. If you can get a tune out of it, he can work it."

"I see." She settled herself a little more securely and stated, "You know, the definition of a gentlefur is one who knows how to play the banjo, but refrains from doing so."

Martha laughed out loud. Karl gave his companion a look of long-suffering and said, "Thus speaks one who has never heard it done well."

"Uh-huh. Next time you get the chance, why don't you give me a demonstration? Bring it with you on Tuesday."

Karl plucked a piece of hay from the pile and stuck it in the side of his mouth. "Ah'll jest do thet little thang, Missy. An' you git yore hat set fer some real ole-fashioned bluegrass lahk grandma used ta make."

Wendy chuckled at his 'put-on' Southern accent.

Another voice called up to them, "Everyone settled in up there?"

Casey called back, "Ayah, Joe, we be ready. Ain't but the four of us. That all that be goin'?"

"I reckon," came the reply. "We got six wagons, and nought but twenty-eight riders. So spread out all you want."

" 'Preciate it, Joe." And Casey and Martha snuggled into their own 'nest' on the other side of the hay.

Karl struck up the mournful folk ballad on the harmonica, Casey supplying the lyrics, and the procession of hay wagons jerked to a slow walk.

##

_** 8:45pm **_

Nothing but light snores could now be heard from the other side of the hay wagon. In the dim lantern glow, Karl looked down at the top of Wendy's head where she was leaning on his upper arm. He thought, _"I could talk to this woman for days without stopping."_ She was gesticulating with her left arm, animatedly telling another story from her childhood.

"So Dad spent half an hour just getting it out of the rest of the pile of locust limbs, getting pricked a bunch of times for his trouble, then he worked on the silly thing for a good two hours in his shop. Ended up with a really nice-looking piece of wood, at least it looked nice to me, but of course I was only ten. And all I had to use for a bowstring was some cotton twine. The first time he bent it to put the string on, it cracked in the middle. Just a little crack, but it was obvious it would never function as a bow. I cried, and he was just devastated. Kept apologizing the rest of the day. I kept the stick, though, and used it as a walking stick. It was great for that."

"Do you still have it?"

"Oh, no. I had it . . . um, that is, it didn't . . ." She dropped her arm and sighed, snuggling into his chest a little.

"I'm sorry, Wendy. Did I say something I shouldn't have?"

She didn't reply right away.

"Maybe we should change the subject?"

"No." Her voice was very small. "Karl, did you know that I'm divorced?"

"Yes."

"Hmm. Did you know that my ex-husband was . . . was not a nice person?"

"Yes. I know he assaulted you, and spent some time in prison for it."

She looked up at him, but couldn't read anything in his face. "He wasn't stable. He joined some cult or something. I never went to any of the meetings with him. It was just too weird. But at one point he tried cutting our ties with the past, and burned most of my things."

Karl's brow clouded up. He reached across with his right paw and stroked her headfur. "I'm sorry, Wendy."

She patted his paw, then left hers in place on his. "You don't have to be sorry for anything. You didn't get me into that so-called marriage, or keep me there. You didn't make Arthur go nuts. You didn't light the fire, or throw anything on it."

"But you had to live through it, and that _is_ a sad thing."

She sat up and turned to him, putting both her paws on her hips. "Mister Luscus, did you invite me along to parade my mistakes in front of me?"

"No! That's not it at all! I only . . ."

She laid a finger across his muzzle, silencing him. "Then hush. I'm officially changing the subject."

Her scent had been wreathing his head for an hour, but her finger right on his nose brought it home anew, making him very slightly giddy. "I . . . guess I'm okay with that."

She plopped back down and reached around behind her. "We've already had most of the drinks you brought, and you never even _asked_ what I had in my bag."

With an effort he recovered his wits. "I figured you'd let me know eventually."

"Curiosity not your long suit?"

"I'd hardly say that. I just focus my curiosity a little more tightly than most."

"Ah-huh. Well, what do you think about this?" She reached into the bag and withdrew a pair of large plastic freezer bags. Opening one, she presented Karl with her treat.

He took it and sniffed it, and his face lit up. "Caramel apples?"

"Mm-hmm."

"I haven't had a caramel apple since nineteen . . . um, in a long time."

"Nineteen-what?"

"Gosh, it's so far back in the hoary past."

She punched his arm. "Just eat your apple, you old rapscallion, you." And she bit into hers.

Karl thoroughly enjoyed Wendy's offering. The apple, a winesap, was fresh, and crunchy as an icicle. The caramel she had made herself, and had added nutmeg and allspice to give it a little extra zing. He left the stick and the seeds. Nothing else.

"That was great. Thanks, kid."

"That's another thing," she teased. "Where do you get off calling me 'kid'?"

He shrugged. "Much of the time, you seem very young. You act like a kid. Oh, not in a bad way, not irresponsible or anything, just . . . zestful. Lots of verve."

"I don't know about the 'not irresponsible' part. It was pretty irresponsible of me not to check on the building codes before running all that electrical wire." She leaned back on his chest again, and laid her paw on him next to her face. "I really want to thank you again for what you did. You're building quite a reputation as a miracle-worker."

Her slight weight felt **_very _**nice against his chest. His mind fuzzed up again, making it a bit difficult to come up with an adequate response. "It was the least I could do, after leading you into the situation."

"Still," she said, "you got it all fixed, all straightened out, in less than three hours. And in my book, that's above and beyond." She reached up and lightly stroked his muzzle.

His defenses had been slowly dropping all evening. Her touch on his face at that moment was like falling onto a high-tension line. It had been nine years since he'd held a woman in intimacy, nine years of solitude, four of them utterly steeped in the blood of his enemies, and three working out absolution for it. Her caress flicked a lever, opening him to a flood of memories, of sensations and trials, of despair and joy.

Opening him once more to desire.

Her touch was brief. The contact lasted less than two seconds. She pulled her paw away from his face and rubbed her fingers together, sniffing at them.

"You've got some caramel in your fur." She licked her fingers off.

"What?" He couldn't really think straight, not just then.

"Right there, in the short fur. Heh. You know, around your mouth is about the only place your fur **_gets _**short."

He tried to get at the spot with his tongue, but it was out of reach.

She giggled at him. "Y'know, my Mom had a trick for cleaning up stuff like that. Here," she offered, "Let me get that off for you." And she licked several times at the corner of his mouth.

But when she drew back and looked into his eyes, the deep, hot hunger she saw there banished any more thoughts of her mother.

"Karl?"

His gaze burning into her eyes, he slowly reached up and laid a restrained paw on her neck, drawing her gently to him.

She offered no resistance as their lips met.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

. . .

. . .

. . .

Here ends** Gone Wylde Book Two: Is This Deception Necessary?**

Next Up: ** Gone Wylde Book Three: It's Not All Fun and Games**

. . .

. . .

. . .

_* * Author's End Note: _

_Let's try this again: Comments. Reviews. Feedback. _

_I would like to see some, please. I know there are people reading this. The hit counter says so. I'd LOVE to dialog you with about the story!_

_Is anyone curious about Karl's background? About Wendy's ex-husband and what he did and where he went? About what sorts of scars each of the characters may be carrying? About the sorts of things Omicron Platoon did, what Karl's role was with them, and what happened to them? About Capra's history with Karl? About what the Knights of the Pure Strain really have in mind?_

_All these and more will be touched upon in the next Book. Let's hear some chatter!_

_Concolor44 * *_


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